Breaking Glass
by swaggercaptain
Summary: All the air is punched violently from her lungs when his first three words are a question, one eyebrow arched high on his forehead in curiosity, "Who are you?" When the Snow Queen lodges a shard of glass deep in Killian's heart, how can Emma remind him of who he is when she cannot even remind him who she is?
1. Prologue

**Breaking Glass**

_Prologue_

"Where's Henry?" she asks as they run across town, their destination marked by a dark cloud swirling ominously in the sky. His response is immediate, voice reassuring when he tells her the boy is with her mother, as is baby Neal. David is on his way with Regina and Gold; both sorcerers no doubt making an appearance in their attempt to show the town their dedication to turning the proverbial leaf.

The sun is blotted out by the roiling mass of grey and the shadow it casts falls over them as they near its domain, the snow beneath their feet thickening so their gait slows to a jog.

Magic crackles in the air, its smell becoming more potent the closer they get until she's sure they are on the verge of the source. Killian pulls her aside before they can turn the corner to where their most recent foe awaits, arctic eyes intense as he drags her into an alley with a firm grip on her elbow.

"What's wrong?" she asks, alarmed by the abrupt detour.

His lips become thin for a moment, eyes dropping to her collarbones, and she can see him trying to form the words that are clearly important if he is stealing her attention from the Snow Queen's domineering presence. The usual lilt of his voice is edged by tangible concern when he meets her gaze meaningfully.

"Promise me you'll take caution with this woman. Promise me you won't make any irrational decisions just to secure her defeat."

Emma's mouth falls open and she just stares at him for a moment, trying to process the absolute sincerity in his expression. Unfortunately, he takes her silence as an indication of personal insult and he stammers to correct himself, "I just – I know of your penchant for martyr acts, love, and you haven't faced the Snow Queen yet and I..." He squeezes his eyes shut, good hand closing in a fist while he continues to try to fathom his thoughts into coherent sentences. It's strange to see a man with an obscenely extensive vocabulary struggle for words.

Eventually he finds them though, they come out in a pained rush.

"You're the Savior but that doesn't mean you have to save everyone at your life's risk."

A thousand reactions occur to her: indignation that he doesn't trust her to look after herself, bemusement at the trivial notion that she would ever make a deliberately life-threatening decision, indifference in a pointless attempt to distance herself from the way his all-too-knowing eyes are penetrating her. Instead, her eyebrows furrow and she swallows down the sudden, inexplicable weight in her chest.

"Okay," she nods numbly, "I promise."

The connotations belied in his words begin to overwhelm her and she spins on her heel, ready to make her way towards the source of the mass of darkening clouds overhead, but his hand is still on her elbow and he pulls her back. His lips are firm when they meet hers, and she melts into the kiss for a short second before pulling back.

Clenching her hands in the lapels of his jacket, she holds his gaze, a silent exchange passing between them in the transitory moment.

"You too," she mumbles, choking on any other words that might expound just how much she needs him to stay safe (Emma Swan has never been good with words). But then, _he's_ not the target – he may be handy with a sword, but in a magic battle he is a liability if anything. Which is why she and Elsa and Gold and Regina are the Snow Queen's most recent targets of choice; their power makes them unequivocal threats to the pallid woman's unknown (but undoubtedly abysmal) plans for Storybrooke.

He nods and smirks softly, "Aye, as you wish."

The turn of phrase pulls at the corners of her lips and she releases him to turn away and run out of the alley. This time he follows her and, as the distance between them and the frozen sorceress diminishes, Emma has the strangest feeling of foreboding in her stomach, making it knot and twist uncomfortably. Their exchange in the safety of the alley flashes in her mind, their promises making the squeezing in her gut intensify. Something feels wrong; but she can't pay it any mind – not when they've just moved into the Snow Queen's line of sight and the woman is staring directly at them.

Emma pulls to a stop and Killian mirrors the action, already unsheathing his sword and adopting a defensive stance. Employing Regina's techniques, she begins to internally call on the magic in her veins and it thrums to life almost instantly. It sparks under her skin and tingles at her fingertips like a live wire that has been routed through her entire system.

The Snow Queen's crystalline eyes latch onto the young woman before her with a knowing smirk.

"I was beginning to fear you would force me to garner your attention using other, far less placid methods," is her curt greeting, teeth bared in a cold grin befitting of her title. She tilts her head ever so slightly and considers Killian with traceable amusement, "You brought along your plaything. How _quaint_."

Beside Emma, Killian's teeth grind together at the insult and, instinctively, she glances at him to quieten the storm already brewing in his bones.

"_However_," the sorceress redraws their attention as she begins to pace in a small circle in front of them, flecks of snow rising up as she disrupts them with her calculated steps, "I did not perform this little display," she gestures above her to the churning sky, "to attract you _and _your companion. I only need you, my dear."

Strangely enough, warning bells toll in Emma's head. _That was a lie. _But why would she want Killian here too? Frowning at the woman across from her, she almost doesn't notice the way the snow is shifting unnaturally around them.

"So I suppose I shall simply have to distract him while I deal with _you_."

A split second passes where the Snow Queen's words do not register, her voice far too calm for a threat. Like a shark preparing to strike in undisturbed waters. But when they finally do, it is too late to run because the downy white matter beneath their feet is taking shape, rising up to form jagged silhouettes, hardening into ice. In a matter of seconds, there are at least five ice monsters in front of them, every edge of their profile razor sharp and lethal.

The Snow Queen grins inhumanly and then they are lunging, glowing eyes fixed on the source of their blood-lust, as they engage in a sudden and unavoidable battle. They both manoeuvre around the monsters; Killian cutting them down with each swipe of his sword in a fluid dance of metal and ice, Emma conjuring fireballs with enough heat to melt the limbs from the arctic creations before they can touch her. Through no fault of their own, they are separated, their aggressors forcing them further and further apart so they fight as two solitary units.

From her peripheral vision, Emma can see their enemy observing the battle with idle curiosity. The antagonistic woman's gaze drifts between the Savior and the pirate and, so consumed with fending off a potentially deadly blow, Emma doesn't notice the way her foe smiles with cruel satisfaction. So she definitely doesn't notice when the Snow Queen pulls her arm back, something transparent and blue crackling in her outstretched hand.

She is too preoccupied with the icy demon in front of her to realize the sorceress' intent before it is too late. Killian is not.

"_Emma_!" he bellows frantically.

Dispatching the last immediate threat with unerring swiftness, Emma pivots to see a blaze of pale blue and silver rushing towards her. Panic slams violently into her chest, heart leaping out of her ribs while her eyes widen and she prepares to bear the brunt of the spell. Only she never does.

There is a flash of black leather in front of her, a cry of pain and then deathly silence.

"_Killian_!" she screeches, her mind finally catching up to the image before her. He is standing in front of her, arms outstretched, sword forgotten somewhere on his left where he dropped it as he sprinted towards her. A short moment passes where shock replaces the panic pounding in rhythm with her heart but then the two emotions are mixing, stirring together in her chest to smother her; especially when he stumbles on the spot.

Completely ignoring the very real threat that may still surround her, Emma snakes her arms under his shoulders before he can fall. His weight lands heavily against her chest and she struggles against it, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to lower him gently to the ground so his head is cradled in her lap.

His eyes are closed.

_His eyes are closed._

Muffled footsteps thunder in her ears and her head snaps up at the sound, ready to scrounge up whatever magic she has left to defend his limp body. But her eyes are met with a perplexing sight: the Snow Queen, along with all of her monsters, have disappeared. The footsteps are her father's as he rapidly crosses the space between them, Gold and Regina following closely behind.

She relaxes marginally, but it is short-lived as she lowers her gaze to Killian once again. His shirt is torn, the impact of the blow clearly hitting him square in the chest. The black fabric is torn enough for her to see bruising as well as a littering of tiny, insignificant scars peppered across his skin, blood already seeping from the shallow wounds. That is not what terrifies her; his breathing is shallow enough that the rise and fall of his chest is nearly imperceptible. Scrambling to her feet, Emma's not sure what words pass her lips, only that it prompts dread to ripple through the faces in front of her.

The following hours pass in a blur.

Regina and Gold transport them instantly to the hospital. Emma is steadfast at his side as they wheel him down winding corridors, until she can't follow anymore and she is forced to wait with her parents in the stifling reception area. Eventually they are directed to his room where he lays sleeping, chest bandaged and face slack. Dr Whale explains that the abrasions were caused by fragments of glass but, other than that, he should be fine.

He is physically fine. He should make a full recovery and all there is to do is wait.

The minutes pass into hours. Her parents leave. The hours drift by, the sun disappears behind the horizon and she falls asleep with her head on the side of the bed and her hands clutching his wrist. When she wakes, golden light filters into the room and she stands to run her fingers through her hair and stretch.

And that's when he stirs.

Her heart leaps into her throat and she shoves the chair away from the side of his bed so she can stand there, mentally recording every infinitesimal shift in his expression until his eyes finally begin to open. The sigh of relief that escapes her lips is what alerts him to her presence and she's weighing up whether she should just kiss him now and risk the smug grin she'll undoubtedly receive in return when he blinks several times in rapid succession.

Something heavy settles in the pits of her stomach at the look he gives her. Confusion.

All the air is punched violently from her lungs when his first three words are a completely honest question, one eyebrow arched high on his forehead in curiosity.

"Who are you?"

* * *

**Reviews would be _greatly _appreciated**


	2. Part One: The Fell Swoop

**At the moment I'm planning for this to be split into about four parts but we'll see how it goes. Thank you so much for all your reviews/follows/favorites/messages - it makes the writing process far less tedious.**

* * *

**Part One: The Fell Swoop**

"_Life's all about moments of impact and how they changes our lives forever. But what if one day you could no longer remember any of them_?" She'd heard it in a movie once, considered the notion and swiftly dismissed it because of its irrelevance to her. Even now, it does not apply to her (not directly, anyway). No, she remembers everything and perhaps that is her curse.

The words have a ring to them, an edge of vicious torment that assaults her ears, taunting her with their accuracy as she stares into familiar blue eyes – yet now, sounsettlingly _unfamiliar_. Standing at his bedside, held frozen by a mixture of shock and something else that is completely indescribable, the breath backs up into her lungs. He is still staring at her, singular eyebrow arched in question as he waits for a reply to the question he just posed – three little words that tore her from the roots up as he scrutinised her quite seriously .

"_Who are you_?"

And what answer is there, really? Several words make a circuit in her brain: friend, lover, ally, partner, companion. Nothing quite seems to fit the description of the ever-changing enigma that is them (_was _them). He's starting to look irritated, voice sharp when he jeers, "You're not a mute, sweetheart, are you?"

The pet name stings even more because of the derisive tone he lathers it with. Just a day ago he'd said it with an underlining of endearment, sidling up to her as they raced towards their most recent foe, the elusive Snow Queen. How could she have known that, when they finally encountered the arctic sorceress, she would send a bolt of icy magic in Emma's direction, her angular features twisted in a haughty smirk? How could she have known that Killian would take the hit, the strange combination of transparent magic and reflective shards hitting him square in the chest? How could she have ever known their problem would not rest with the shallow surface wounds it inflicted?

It hadn't mattered that they'd rushed him to the emergency room, her hand a constant presence over his as he was wheeled through the sterile hospital, completely unconscious. They hadn't been in a position to postulate the ramifications of such a harsh blow, let alone predict the Snow Queen's true intent. With his deceptively superficial abrasions partially healed courtesy of Dr Whale, Emma had waited patiently by his bedside – certain that he would wake with a smirk and a slurred but sarcastic remark.

Of course, when he had finally stirred and she'd scrambled to his bedside, she never predicted that his first words, as his eyes landed on her, would question her identity. For a moment, she had almost expected him to grin and make a joke of her dumbfounded expression. Only, he never did and he's still looking at her, his irritation growing the longer she stays silent, gaping at him.

She can't tell him the entire truth; so she answers him in the only way she can.

"Emma – I'm Emma Swan. I'm the sheriff – uh, law enforcement."

His face remains blank (no matter how much she probes his expression for even the faintest glimmer of recognition) and her throat constricts tighter when he dismisses the information as though it is some inconsequential fact. Instead, he looks around the room, "And where am I?"

He appears befuddled by the abundance of technology that surrounds him. In any other situation she would laugh at the perplexed expression that graces his features.

Folding her arms across her chest, she pretends to be unaffected by his blatant indifference, "The hospital." At his raised eyebrow, she sighs and stammers for a suitable comparison, "It's like a… a healing centre."

Nodding his understanding, he pulls back the starched hospital blanket and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. As he pushes himself into a standing position, he rolls his shoulders once before fixing Emma with what she knows to be his smirk designed for the sole purpose of leeching information. She's seen it before – even been on the receiving end, back when they'd initially met. It's like watching him put on a mask, one she can overlook with relative ease.

"Emma, was it?"

She nods stiffly.

"Emma, you wouldn't happen to know where a woman named Cora might be?"

Her mouth drops open and she's about to try to form some kind of comprehensive answer when, without warning, he stiffens. She follows his line of sight to the room's window, his entire being suddenly vibrating. Emma turns to see Gold passing by the room and she hears a low guttural growl from the pirate on the hospital bed.

Killian is standing and striding for the door before she can really act. She chases him as he stalks down the hall after Gold, her mind running at a speed she is unable to keep pace with. Dr Whale, having noticed their recent patient's sudden exit and subsequently giving chase, reaches Killian first. But, when he attempts to bodily impede his path, he is knocked aside like a doll, landing firmly against a wall with a loud thud that alerts the former Dark One to his pursuer.

"What do you want?" the older man hisses in his typical tenor when he faces the pirate whose eyes are narrowed murderously as he continues to forge a path towards him. Killian doesn't spare a glance for Emma when she catches up to him, throwing herself in his way and forcing him to stop.

His pale blue eyes are still fixed on Gold, "Get out of my way."

"You can't kill him," Emma responds evenly, holding her hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. She tries to catch his gaze. It is to no avail and his jaw locks angrily.

"Does anyone want to explain what's going on or shall I assume the _pirate _has another dispute he'd like to settle with me?" Gold sneers.

"Get out of my way, _now_. I've waited long enough for my revenge."

"No."

His icy eyes finally flicker down to hers, and she hopes he can see the determination there – he'd always had an uncanny ability to read her even before the emotional tethers had been tied. Whether he does or does not, she never finds out, because he pulls back his arm to shove her aside.

Before he can act, however, she hears the familiar rustle of magic weaving through the air and Killian is suddenly held in place. Every one of his limbs becomes rigid except for his eyes; _those_ snap back up to his nemesis where, if possible, the hatred burns ever brighter. Blood is pumping in her ears, the air thick to swallow and it occurs to her that he was entirely ready to discard her the same way he'd discarded the ice monsters only twenty four hours prior.

Shoving down the throbbing pain blooming in her chest, Emma schools her features and spins to see Gold with his hand extended, clearly holding Killian in place.

"What's going on, Miss Swan?" he asks, and there's more than just annoyance in his voice – there is a tangible underlining of alarm. Although the two men either side of her are on innately hostile terms, they have learned to taper down their dislike of each other. Apart from the occasional snide comment, they generally try to steer clear of confrontation (no doubt at the behest of their respective partners).

So, it is unsurprising that Gold is floored by the abrupt change in their dynamic.

He's not the only one.

8888

As they quickly come to learn, his memories have been altered so that the last thing he can recall is the curse being enacted. From then on, it's entirely blank.

He displays little grief at the knowledge that his ally, Cora, is dead at the hands of Snow White. His face narrows to something foreign and deadly at the mention of his current location being the realm previously without magic, expression radiating unmatched anger when he is told the Jolly Roger is gone (no one explains why, no one but Emma knows why). However, it is all nothing compared to the way he now looks at her, an uncomfortable prickling sensation blooming where his eyes land against her skin.

She shifts uncomfortably under his glare, and watches as he is assessed, held immobile by Gold's magic. The sorcerer himself has long since exited the hospital, no doubt to fortify the protections over his home and his new wife. Emma is now accompanied by David who stands beside her as the nurses and a somewhat hesitant Dr Whale try to find an explanation for his on-set of amnesia.

The yellow haired doctor pulls them aside when they finish, expression apologetic as he gestures towards the hospital room where Killian is restrained.

"The MRI we conducted earlier showed nothing, and his wounds were superficial so… I honestly don't know. Did he hit his head when he fell?" he directs the question at Emma, eyebrows furrowed.

She shakes her head (she distinctly remembers catching him and lowering him to the ground gently) and the doctor chews his lip and shrugs, "Well, then I think this is out of my league. I'm guessing the culprit is some kind of magic the Snow Queen intended for you. Perhaps a memory charm of some sort? Either way, you're better off speaking to Gold or Regina."

Beside her, David nods, his hand landing on Emma's shoulder in a gesture she assumes is supposed to be comforting. Yet, she derives nothing from the reassuring intentions offered by the presence of his palm (there is only one person who can successfully assuage the turbulent emotions that wreak havoc within her nowadays) (how ironic that, in this instance, he is the sole one responsible for them). Her eyes are fixed on the patterned floors as David says something to Dr Whale, prompting him to leave them alone. Pulling away from her father, Emma moves to look at Killian through the window of his room. His jaw is locked and he stares at the ceiling as though searching for answers.

He doesn't remember Storybrooke, Neverland, the Lost Year. He doesn't recognise her father, won't recognise her son or her mother. He can't summon up any of the integral memories that have occurred in the past two years, let alone recall the internal development he's undergone since meeting her. Mostly because, in his mind, he never met her.

He never bandaged her hand with heated eyes and skilled lips.

He never called her '_beautiful_' on the side of a damp, muddy road.

He never kissed her amidst the wet heat of a jungle.

He never told her he'd win her heart and dismissed all of her self-doubts in the same breath.

He never ignored his own safety to follow her through time, risking his life and limb in convoluted schemes to ensure her birth.

He never revealed his heart in a monumental gesture, trading his ship (his _home_) just for her.

There is already an ache in her chest, a profound sense of loss she cannot describe. Because after everything that has happened and everything he has given up and every wall he's painstakingly drawn down _just _to make her admit to herself that she reciprocates, he's under the impression _they _never existed. Not as allies, not as a single solidary unit, not as whatever they were before all this.

Nothing. Nothing at all. And she aches.

8888

The overhanging doorbell chimes sharply as Emma sweeps into the pawn shop, completely bypassing the principles of social etiquette as she moves behind the counter, heading in the direction of the back room where she can hear voices. David follows quickly after her, jogging to keep up with her rapid gait. They reach the door just as Gold does, coming to a halt so they are standing on either side of the doorframe.

Behind him, Belle appears and notes the tension already mounting, making the astute decision to retreat with a soft, "I'll make some tea." She obviously trusts Emma and David enough that she isn't concerned about them invoking violence but, for some unknown reason, she also apparently trusts that Gold will not act out of line.

The second she disappears behind a door, Emma cuts the pawn broker off before he can speak.

"What's wrong with him?"

His expression is devoid of mirth when he leers, "I was hoping you two could tell me. But, based on your presence in my shop, I'm going to assume it isn't a simple case of amnesia?"

Emma growls and David places a hand on her shoulder, silently telling her to calm down before he intercedes, "This isn't the time for jokes, Gold. Dr Whale thinks his memory loss is a by-product of the magic the Snow Queen used yesterday while Emma and Killian were giving chase."

"That would be the primary suspect, wouldn't it? So, why are you here to see me?" he asks, eyes wide with faux bemusement. He _knows _why they've come to him and, if the look in his eye is anything to go off, Emma has a feeling he's already measuring up a price.

With him, there's always a price.

"We need you to figure out what's wrong with him," David answers.

"And fix it," Emma adds, watching his expression morph into incredulity.

"While my lovely wife may induce some philanthropy from me, I am not in the mood to aid an individual who was directly responsible for her less than pleasant experience with the town line… among other things," he replies in a gently derisive tone that sends a ripple of anger down the blonde's spine. Her fists clench and she can feel David's grip on her shoulder tighten, especially when he tilts his head and appears to consider them, "Unless, of course, this is a business transaction?"

Her father's response is immediate as he steps up so he is standing beside her, "What's your price?"

Gold's mouth opens but Emma's cold voice interrupts him, eerily calm as she claims, "There won't be a price. You'll do this anyway." To say that her words surprise him is an understatement. Both men pause to look at her, the sorcerer's eyebrows ascending to his hairline as he smirks in amusement.

He folds his arms across his chest, "And why is that, dearie?"

Emma's lips tilt up dangerously and she holds his gaze intently. "Because if Killian has lost his memory of the past two years, then he still wants to get his revenge and you _know _he's nothing if not determined. Which means Belle is in danger and I know you're not willing to risk her safety – so really, it's in your best interests that he remember everything so the two of you can live peacefully, _dearie_." She spits the pet name back at him.

He shrugs offhandedly, trying to appear unaffected.

"Or I could just kill him, save myself the trouble."

But she can see the way his eyes have narrowed; he knows she has him pegged and her next words prove it.

"No, because Belle would know you did it and, for some reason, she trusts you now more than ever and that's _really _not something you're willing to compromise by killing Killian," she says, weighing up his expression and deciding to add (just for good measure), "that and I'd kill you myself." For all that he claims to be untouchable; she has always sensed unease in him at the mention of her magic. It's a point she feels is perpetuated when his eyes flicker with an unidentifiable emotion – she swears it's a shadow of apprehension.

Whatever potential she has, it threatens him. That fact alone stirs feelings of power to life within her, that if she can just hone her natural ability she'll be a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps, in the future, she won't need to call on this wily man or the Evil Queen for magical guidance.

Lips thinning, Gold takes a deep breath, "Fine. I'll explore my archives; you may want to do some reconnaissance yourself by talking to our newest arrivals from Arendelle." His instructions are begrudging but they are a start nonetheless.

8888

Elsa and her companions have nothing further to add other than the villainous woman's innate cruelty and elusive nature. The only experience they have with the dreaded Snow Queen is limited at best, fleeting glimpses into the breadth of her power; such as when she managed to trick Gold into bottling Elsa rather than herself, or when she detained Anna for years so even the trolls' attempts at a locater spell were constantly denied.

Elsa and her sister apologize profusely for not being of much assistance, offering their help should it become necessary. Emma understands but she cannot help the frustration that boils up in her, taking shape in hatred for the Snow Queen.

8888

Twelve hours pass and it is late in the evening when the hospital calls the apartment, a concerned nurse imparting the news that Killian has disappeared. Emma is dressed and driving in the direction of the pawn broker shop in less than five minutes, her parents on their way to the hospital while Henry is stowed safely with Regina.

There's a chance the Snow Queen has taken him, taken advantage of his blank mind to enlist him as an ally. But she cannot think about that right now, so she goes to the only place she can think he might go with revenge still perched ardently on the tip of his mind.

She arrives to see Gold outside the pawn shop, Killian's struggling figure held a significant distance from him by magic. The bug screeches to a halt and Emma tears from the vehicle towards them, the latter shouting obscenities at his nemesis as he attempts futilely to breach the invisible barrier. As she approaches, Gold simply nods to the pirate disdainfully.

"Let him know I may not be so merciful next time he attempts to break into my shop," he tells Emma, and with a flick of his wrist, he sends the pirate in question flying back several feet. Irritated at the inane display of violence, she glares at Gold before running to Killian's side where he is splayed on the ground.

He is just beginning to push himself up again and she extends a hand to help him, an automatic reaction she has become too accustomed to. It is only when he brushes off her attempts to aid him that she remembers herself, withdrawing as he finally rights him and stares daggers at the store and the red door behind which Gold has disappeared.

A short second later, his gaze lands directly on Emma but the scorn doesn't dissolve, "You _do_ realise you're protecting a man who has thoughtlessly murdered countless people and inflicted more pain and suffering than you could ever comprehend." He spits the words and her responding flinch is uncontainable (her reactions to him have never been particularly controllable).

Swallowing, Emma pulls herself up to her full height, "You can't just try to get even here, and I can't just let you kill him. It's wrong –"

"And it's _right _to simply dismiss his past crimes?" he challenges fervently, stepping forward and glowering down at her, "Were his past indiscretions not _wrong_ or is this realm's officers of the law just as corrupt as those in the Enchanted Forest?" He sneers and shakes his head, his disgust hitting somewhere deep and the tender pain in her chest dissipates to make way for anger.

Her brows pull tightly together, "He didn't bribe me if that's what you mean –"

"Then _why_?"

There is a moment where she wants to tell him; to unload everything they have refused to tell him so far, impart every infinitely important moment from the second they met to where they stand now. They have withheld certain things for his sake so far, partly so he is not overwhelmed and partly because they do not know how he will react. Only a handful of people truly know the ruthless pirate that existed before he met Emma. And even their encounters were scarce at best – it makes him unpredictable on a good day.

So they haven't told him everything.

Consequently, he doesn't understand the extent of his relationship with her. She internally scolds herself for using present tense; it's a habit she's been unsuccessful at breaking so far.

Instead of saying anything she may regret, Emma settles for something simple and straightforward, something easy to explain and easy for him to understand, even if it is something that will probably make him despise her just a little more.

"Because it's illegal here," she says, lips tight and face carefully blank.

He rolls his eyes and barks a laugh. "Of course," he spits in a voice that drips with barbed sarcasm. Killian shakes his head one more time before he turns around, coat flaring behind him, and heads who-knows-where. She has to dig her nails into her palms to force herself not to follow him.

It feels unnatural to watch his back retreating into the distance. She hasn't had to watch that since his seemingly permanent departure when she was locked in Rumplestiltskin's cell. Even then, trailing his slow retreat with her eyes had prompted a strange pang in the depths of her stomach. At the time, she'd attributed it to hunger. Now, she knows it was something entirely different and infinitely more complex.

Watching him now makes the prior experience pale in comparison. She returns home and tries not to think of him sleeping outside, alone and confused and hating her.

She doesn't sleep a wink.

8888

A week passes.

He's planning something – she can tell. Every time she sees him in the street, his gaze is calculating and _always_ fixed on the pawn broker store. It makes her nervous and for the first time in a long time she doesn't have someone to tug on an errant curl and instil her self-confidence. That has been his job for a while now and it takes his absence for her to realise his central role in her life.

She uses it to fuel her escapades against the Snow Queen.

Emma is at every sighting in moments, chasing the woman down with fire in her veins and magic thrumming and sparking at her fingertips. It doesn't go amiss to her the way their newest nemesis leers knowingly at Emma whenever they cross paths, and it infuriates her to no end.

Gold scours his shop while Belle examines the library for any hint as to the specific reason for Killian's sudden-onset of amnesia. Her parents are supportive – as supportive as they can be when they don't really know what the specific situation was between their daughter and the pirate. Her son is consumed with trying to help Regina come to terms with Marian's presence but at least he knows about Killian's situation, enough that he knows to avoid the man he was gradually befriending.

Her days are lonely. She tells herself that this is what she prepared herself for, that this is what she predicted from the moment he declared his intent to win her. It eases some of the pain that buries itself deep in the burrows of her heart, and there are times where she is almost convinced that it doesn't affect her. But then the night comes.

The moon rises and the stars twinkle and she misses his faintly sardonic remarks and his smirk and his reverent gaze and the way his shoulder would constantly brush hers. She misses him more than she thought she ever could. She thinks about how it must have been for him when she didn't remember him after a year of separation and it makes everything hurt more knowing that somehow he persevered.

It reminds her (torments her) that there was a time when he loved her.

He may never have explicitly said it, but he loved her – enough to trade his home just for the opportunity to bring her to hers. And, beneath the façade of composure and emotional independence she ceaselessly adopts (_second nature_, she inwardly grimaces), she holds onto that as the week passes in a blur of isolation.

You would think by now that Emma Swan, abandoned orphan with a heart of stone and walls of steel, would be familiar with the trials of seclusion. Evidently, that is not quite true.

8888

She is pouring Henry's cereal when the sound of someone knocking booms in the apartment, three succinct raps that can only belong to one person. Ruffling her son's hair as she passes, she moves quickly and quietly to the door, draping her cardigan tighter around herself before pulling it open. Behind her, Mary Margaret and David are just coming downstairs and she hears them approach to stand behind her.

Gold stands at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back as he waits.

"What have you found?" Emma demands instantly, face impassive. It is far too early for pleasantries and she wouldn't flatter herself in assuming he's there for anything other than business. With a curt nod, he moves past her into the apartment and she shuffles to the side to allow him entry.

Closing the door, she turns to face him where he now stands in the centre of the apartment. He glances briefly over his shoulder at Henry before he speaks tersely.

"Without assessing him, I cannot be sure. But my first guess would have been a standard memory charm since the section of recollections pilfered was very specific. However, when I attempted to relieve him of its clutches when he foolishly attempted to break into my shop, it didn't work."

"So it's not a memory spell?" her mother offers with a frown, taking a seat at the table.

Gold's expression moulds to irritation and his tone holds barely concealed derision when he addresses the pixie-haired woman, "_Of course_ it's a memory spell. It can be nothing _but _a memory spell – but that's not the problem. The problem is I think there is a physical anchor either on him or in him which makes it inherently more difficult to remove. Belle and I are currently in the process of researching potential anchors and how to extract them."

David shakes his head and moves to stand behind his wife, leaning on the back of her chair, "But why would the Snow Queen want Emma to lose her memories?"

Gold's smirk is anything but appealing and he cocks an eyebrow, "What makes you think it was intended for Emma?"

"Because it was _aimed _at me," she snaps with no shortage of sarcasm, narrowing her eyes. But the Dark One simply shrugs, his brown eyes twinkling knowingly when they meet her green ones.

"_And_?" he says mockingly, as though the details matter naught, "The Snow Queen is notorious for her observant nature – and it doesn't require a profound level of intelligence to notice the pirate's affection for you, nor yours for him." The statement floors Emma momentarily; because if what he's alluding to is true then things just became a whole lot messier. She's too caught by the possibility that Killian was the target from the beginning to care that Gold is discussing her emotional attachments in front of her. Under any other circumstance, she might feel vulnerable – but really, based on her parent's severe lack of reaction, it isn't news to them that she and Killian shared _something_.

"Why would she want to take Killian's memories?" Mary Margaret's befuddlement is echoed in each of their faces, even Henry who has stopped eating his cheerios in order to listen to the conversation.

"Multiple birds with one tiny, insignificant stone," Gold answers brusquely, much to Emma's confusion.

"What?"

He rolls his eyes, features tightening so that his expression lands somewhere between unamused and impatient, numbering off each reason by extending a spindly finger. "Think about it," he tells them, "the pirate provides the perfect distraction by reverting to his old villainous ways, the Snow Queen gets the opportunity to flex her muscles and dually show us what she's capable of," he turns to gesture cursorily in Emma's direction, "and _she_ is emotionally handicapped and therefore magically handicapped – removing her as a threat so she may focus her attentions on the rest of us who are magically inclined."

Silence greets his revelation and it seems as though everyone deliberately chooses to look anywhere but at Emma, who is staring intently at the ground. Gold, of course, has no such qualms about studying her, and outright scrutinises her reaction to the realisation that _she _was never the true target.

Little details begin to fall into place: like why Emma sensed a lie when the Snow Queen said she only intended to attract the Saviour's attention. The merciless woman's cruel smirk of anticipation is more prominent in her memory now, and it occurs to her that the ice monsters would have had an easy time preventing Killian's path to her – but they didn't. More than that, she and her animated minions disappeared the second the deed was done.

It was never about trying to attack Emma – he was the target from the instant they set foot on that snowy expanse. More poignant than that, is the moment she feels the blame settle heavily on her shoulders. Killian was targeted because he was her weakness, _is _her weakness.

She doesn't look up, not until she sees Gold nodding his farewells to her family, manoeuvring around the apartment towards the door.

But, amidst the guilt already wreaking havoc on her emotions, there's something else grinding on Emma's mind like cartilage on bone and her eyebrows pull together as the pawn broker attempts to leave, having said everything he needed to say. It's the concept of the memory spell: the idea that all they must do is restore the past two years in his mind and everything will return to some level of normalcy.

But it won't – she knows it in the depths of her soul. There's something else wrong with him but she can't put her finger on it.

Before Gold can leave, she's pacing after him and closing the door before he can leave.

"Wait, I think… I think there's something else wrong with him – other than the memory thing," she says, despite the great pain it causes her to make herself vulnerable in this loathsome man's eyes (were Killian here, he'd probably balk at her). The sorcerer pivots slowly to face her with a raised eyebrow.

"Pray tell, dearie, what makes you think that?"

Emma's mouth is dry and everyone in the room is looking at her. _They'll found out sooner or later_, she tells herself in an attempt to soothe the insecurities abruptly rearing up in a crushing wave. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, leaning against the door while she stares at her shoes.

"He's _different._"

It's all she can think of on the spot, but how can she truly put into words that this man gallivanting about town is not Killian – and not simply because he cannot remember her. The problem runs far deeper than that and she _knows _it. Still water always runs deep.

She knows it because when they first met in the Enchanted Forest and he was transfixed by the need to avenge Milah's death, he still wormed his way past her defences and smirked while he did. Even though she _tied him to a tree_ and promised to leave him as ogre fodder, he found it in himself to be endeared by her innate stubborn streak. When they scaled a beanstalk and she asked him who Milah was, he didn't react violently but simply read her like the open book he claimed her to be. He clutched her tighter when she wrenched him away from the tripwire, he sung her praises when she dragged him from the castle's wreckage, and his eyes glittered with _potential _when she took his hand before she betrayed him.

She knows it because when she was one of the sole forces standing in the way of his revenge _more than once_, he never once held her personally accountable for it. Despite her direct involvement in thwarting his attempts to retaliate, abandoning him atop the beanstalk, leaving him in the Enchanted Forest, handcuffing him to a hospital bed and later a water heater in a basement in New York; he called her beautiful and outright admitted that he was impressed by her, that she looked good, had the audacity to _flirt. _The most he ever did was shove her aside when she was physically impeding his path to Gold in a New York lobby.

She knows it because when they travelled to the past and the hatred and bloodlust was fresh in the air, the wounds on his heart still raw and open, the pain and darkness all consuming, he _wanted_ her. The memory remains vivid in her mind; the second she appeared before him at that tavern, it was like he was seeing sunlight for the first time. He'd had two women either side of him who were already more than willing to accompany him home, both of whom needed no additional convincing or alcoholic encouragement, and he'd chosen _her. _Even in the depths of inebriation, the realm-wide feared Captain Hook had ensured they were alone so he could woo her without interruption. And when they'd returned to his cabin, the way he looked at her – kissed her, held her, touched her – screamed a delicacy that was foreign to the carnal act so clearly on his mind.

She knows it because when they met and she threatened him, when she betrayed him, when he was consumed by the darkness and had no inkling as to who she was... he still looked at her with at least the barest shadow of affection (even if it was occasionally tinted by hurt or frustration). Fondness which grew and deepened to encompass friendship, respect, admiration and eventually something layered and complex (she won't say the word, it hurts too much).

Never once, from the moment they met, has he looked upon her with such potent acrimony or, worse, indifference. The worst she's ever received occurred in Rumplestiltskin's cell when his actions were prompted by the betrayal that had left him burned. At the time, it stung. Compared to _this_, it was a mere discomfort.

She shifts uncomfortably on the spot. Meeting Gold's gaze head-on in an attempt to silently convey the underlying importance of this request, she clarifies the vague statement. "What I _mean_ is – I've never seen him so… dark. I just think there's something else going on – he was never like this when we met in the Enchanted Forest - and we _tied him to a tree_ and threatened to feed him to ogres, I mean..." She shrugs and her voice drifts off self-explanatorily.

A glimmer of understanding flits across his face so fast she almost doesn't catch it. She asks in a firmer voice, "Can you look into it?"

Several seconds later he nods and she lets him leave, pointedly refusing to make eye contact with her family who are watching her like she'll shatter at any given moment. She is unmoved by the sentiment; she's not made of glass, after all.

8888

It's like travelling back in time, only this time she isn't accompanied by someone to hold her steady and remind her that she's more than just an orphan with a penchant for attracting disaster. David drives at an indubitably illegal speed through the town, racing towards the docks where Gold has just informed them that '_the pirate has managed to procure my wife - again.'_

She never thought she'd have to do this again, chase him down like a criminal terrorizing the town. They should really be focused on the Snow Queen but the woman hasn't staged an attack in days and, while something about that simply doesn't sit well with Emma, she can't ignore the immediate threat Killian presents to Belle. Gold's vehicle is already pulled up to the curb at an awkward angle, no doubt the result of similarly reckless driving in his haste to reach the docks.

Even before they exit David's pick-up, they can hear Killian and Gold yelling at each other. Emma glances at her father and she can only imagine the way his concerned expression mirrors her own. Together, they make their way towards the raucous voices, three figures visible at the end of the docks.

The closer the get, the more they can make out and Emma, faster than her father, reaches them first. Killian is standing at the edge of the pier, Belle held at arm's length to his side, hovering on the brink of the wooden planks so even a minor push will send her careening into the freezing cold waters churning beneath. Gold is opposite them, fists clenched at his side as he struggles to maintain his composure.

Emma's thunderous footsteps on the docks alert all three to her presence and, while Killian spares her a glance, his eyes stay firmly locked on his enemy who rotates on the spot to face her. Glaring darkly, he gestures in the direction of his wife and foe.

"You've finally arrived, have you?" he spits, "Please enlighten me, dearie, as to why I should not simply flay him where he stands."

"Go ahead, crocodile – let your wife see you for what you truly are!" Killian jeers behind him and Gold's eyes narrow to slits.

"Why haven't you just used magic to pull her away from him?" Emma asks, frowning at Belle's stumbling figure – her elegant face is carefully impassive (a front designed to calm her husband and spite her captor).

Sneering, Gold's tone is an infuriating combination of scorn and malice, "Oh yes, I hadn't thought to perform an _elementary spell_ – of course I've tried that but he must have found a counter-curse because, evidently, it's not worked thus far." He returns his attention to the two people standing at the end of the pier and Emma steps forward so she is beside him. Killian's eyes lock onto her and he shakes his head, acid dripping from his every motion and syllable.

"Aligned yourself with the crocodile, sweetheart? And here I thought you told me you weren't under his economic purview," the pirate taunts accusingly. She rejects her body's automatic response: to flinch and cower under his harsh accusations. Practiced in the art of hiding her emotions, she sets her face in a mask of irritation and shakes her head. She will not be cowed by this augmented version of him.

"I'm not aligned with him, I'm aligned with keeping people safe!" she calls back, taking one measured step closer.

Killian shakes his head dismissively, "That may be so, but my loyalties lie with my revenge. And that, unfortunately, puts this lovely lass in jeopardy." He nudges Belle marginally and Gold growls, a low and dangerous sound that raises hairs on the back of Emma's neck. With a feral grin, Killian turns to scrutinise the brunette held deftly in his unrelenting grip, "Unless, of course, she's willing to concede that her husband is a morally corrupt beast."

Belle glares at him but says nothing, wisely choosing not to provoke him with her life potentially in his hand and hook. Emma takes another step towards them and then another, but he notices and snaps his gaze to her.

He raises his brows in scepticism and chuckles darkly, eyeing her in such a way that suggests he's questioning what she's trying to do by moving closer. Apparently, he still considers her to be enough of a reckoning force that she is a threat because he moves his arm so Belle almost falls in before he drags her back.

Emma absorbs the silent demand and stops, raising her arms innocuously.

"Look, she's innocent in this," she tries, at a loss for how to talk him down. In all brutal honesty, she doesn't know what tactic to use with him because _this man_ is foreign to her. It's why she politely requested that Gold take a further look into the possible reasons for his abnormally vicious behaviour.

With every second that passes, it is becoming glaringly obvious that Emma Swan no longer knows Killian Jones; at least, not enough for her to pull him from whatever precipice he's standing over. In fact, given their history since he woke without a mental trace of the past two years, it would have been potentially beneficial to call someone who hasn't yet incited his wrath.

Emma shakes her head beseechingly, "Killian, this isn't _you_!"

This time, when he bellows at her, it's caustic and brutal – leaving her winded with each punch-packed syllable, "Stop calling me Killian - you've no right to use my given name!" That's all it takes to pull her up short and she stares at him, unable to answer.

_"I wanted to thank you, Killian…" _

She can still remember the way his face lit up when she finally said his real name of her own volition, the image seared into her soul with a scolding hot brand. It burns now, to hear him order her to use his title after so much time spent wordlessly convincing her to use his name. Emma is too floored to form a coherent response.

Mercifully, David's voice rises from behind her.

"So what's the plan? Kill Belle, hurt Gold, and then what?" he questions and Killian simply shrugs.

"Well, _then_ he can do whatever he pleases," is his deadpan response, staring defiantly at Gold, daring him to retaliate. The exchange transports her back in time, to a damp night at the town line when he was lying bruised and bloodied in a ditch. On that night, his entire being had exuded the same suicidal edge that lines his words now.

As appalling as it is, Killian genuinely does not care whether or not he dies, so long as he gets his revenge. He hasn't yet experienced the empty hollowness this ruthless pursuit offers at its close.

Gold, slamming his foot down on the pier, growls, "Belle, you may need to look away –"

Emma turns on him instantly, "_No_!" she roars, the smell of smoke suddenly and unexplainably filling her nostrils.

When she faces Killian again, his eyes are narrowed.

"Whywould you give a damn?"

Her mouth opens and closes and it's with his focus on her that his grip on Belle accidentally falters. A high pitched scream pierces the air and, instinctively, Emma reaches out (regardless of the fact that she's at least twelve feet away). Killian has stepped back, fully intending to allow the brunette to drop into the violently crashing waves. The nonchalance with which he watches the following seconds unfold shocks her to the core, but she doesn't have the time or effort to spare as orange light bursts from her fingertips towards the woman tumbling backwards off the pier.

Ribbons of the transparent magic slip around her just as she drops, winding around her waist and lurching her forward before anyone can blink. Belle is sprinting towards them the very second her heels touch the wood again and, in a matter of moments, she is gathered in Gold's arms and being pulled away.

Killian, on the other hand, stands frozen. His eyes snap to Emma.

"You've magic," he hisses, disgusted.

The repulsion in his tone twists the knife already embedded in her heart, and she stiffens. She wants to say something, but every response dies before it ever reaches her lips, bitter and chalky on her tongue.

David sidles up to her in a moment, one broad hand reaching out to land on her shoulder. With a gentle tug, he makes her step back. One step, and then another, until she turns away and follows her father from the docks. As they make their way to David's pick-up, she feels Killian's blazing eyes on her the entire time.

Their journey back to the apartment passes in a blur. There are a thousand things currently pommelling her, moments like stones bruising her. She doesn't cry; she manages to maintain her dignity by swallowing down the thick ball lodged in her throat and blinking away the wetness stinging her eyes.

But there's nothing she can do to assuage the gnawing in her chest.

Especially when she keeps replaying the look on his face when he realised that she possessed magic. It so heavily juxtaposes the pride that used to shine from him whenever she successfully tapped into her power. She doesn't know who to do this without him standing beside her, smiling softly and telling her, '_you can do this, love_.'

With his memories destroyed and _who knows what else, _the same trait that he'd once found captivating now incites abhorrence.

Childish does not even begin to cover the way she feels, picking at her nails as David drives them through town. She is a grown woman who lived independently for years. She is the goddamn saviour of this town – she doesn't _need _him or his unerring faith in her.

Despite the effort she applies to convincing herself of that notion, she's just as unsuccessful as she has been for the past weeks.

8888

The hour is late and Gold is fuming as he paces the Charmings' kitchen.

"Why could I use magic to pull her back and you couldn't?" Emma eventually asks, folding her arms across her chest. He grinds his teeth together.

"The deflection spell he was using only worked when she was in direct contact with him."

"How the hell did he even get to her?" David asks exhaustedly, rubbing his hairline with his thumb and forefinger.

The woman in question is at home, where the sorcerer burning a hole in their floorboards has ensured them that the protections surrounding his wife and his house are now impenetrable unless Belle personally permits access. Although shaken, Gold has already told them she is recovering swiftly (his fond smile at her resilience appeared and disappeared in a fleeting instant).

"The pirate must have found a counter-measure to the protective spell I'd placed on her," he growls, rubbing his hands together in thought.

"But that would require power, wouldn't it? And it's not like the one-handed wonder can do much, bar sword fighting?" Regina, who is leaning innocuously against a wooden support, quips in an acid-drenched lilt. Although bitterness still lingers in the air whenever she directly encounters Emma, the Evil Queen has pledged her assistance to their cause (probably Henry's doing).

Realisation dawns on Gold's face as he processes Regina's tart reply and an anvil drops down into Emma's stomach when he chuckles mirthlessly, "But he's not the only one in town with power that rivals my own, is he?"

His subtext ripples through the room – there are only two women in town, other than those in the room, currently strong enough to break the Dark One's enchantments. Elsa is still learning the art of control and doesn't carry the malevolent inspiration of her older counterpart.

The Snow Queen.

Killian was working with her.

8888

Red tints her vision as her VW bug screeches around a corner, and she is _definitely _speeding. But let the law be damned, she needs to find him – and she does, loitering down the main street of town. Pulling up to the curb, Emma jumps out and slams the door, stalking towards him so quickly he only notices her when she's three feet away and by then she's already pulled back her elbow.

There is an audible crack when her fist connects with Killian's face and he curses, stumbling back with a hand to his jaw.

"_You're working with her_!" Emma thunders, the betrayal and anger and hurt all manifesting in this blinding moment of unmitigated rage.

His eyes lock on hers and the expression of shock transforms into pure scorn.

"I've no clue what you mean."

_Lie._

Emma shakes her head and takes a threatening step forward, "Don't you dare lie to me!" If her volatility impacts him, it doesn't show because he just smirks insincerely and shrugs. He's about to open his mouth when she remembers what he's clearly forgotten.

"Let me tell you a secret," she hisses, "I can tell when someone's lying to me so cut the shit. I know she helped you get to Belle."

An agonizing moment passes where he sizes her up but then he sighs tiredly and it confirms her accusations before he even speaks.

"The Snow Queen may have approached me," he says with a shrug.

"So you sided with the same woman who _stole your memories of the past two years?_" she demands, half incredulous, half incensed. It doesn't outwardly faze him though because he starts to move around her, sidestepping her so he can start to walk away before they've even begun (how oddly poetic).

"Isn't it hypocritical to criticise my alliances when you've just been dallying about with the Dark One?" Killian retorts with a cocked eyebrow. He makes it about a step before she reaches out to grab his elbow and yank him back around to face her – her emotions really have her acting without boundaries. But then, she'll be damned if she lets him walk away from her like she's nothing.

His eyes go to her hand on his arm and she retracts it.

The physical rejection stings and she channels it into her words as she yells, "For the fifteenth time, I'm not aligned with him! And, if you weren't so fucking near-sighted, you might realise that I was there today trying to save _Belle_ because you can't just go around killing people like it's of no consequence!"

He steps into her space without ceremony, scowling down at her – his faux joviality fading to make way for something infinitely darker than rage.

"If there are supposed consequences for murder, then why is he still walking around like a free man?"

Emma shakes her head and maintains his steady gaze, "It's not that simple –"

"_No, _it is – but your subscription to double-standards astounds me, darling," he sneers viciously.

"So you retaliate by teaming up with the same woman terrorizing this town? You want your revenge so badly you're willing to cross any line?"

"Yes."

The concise answer stuns her more than his coalition with their recent foe; he is utterly unashamed of his association with the cold woman.

Emma's jaw drops open and the breath in her lungs stutters as it escapes her parted lips, a wisp of white puffing into the brisk evening air that separates them. And, despite the frigid weather, she feels heat running across her skin and filling her veins with fire.

It's her turn to be disgusted and she steps away from him and murmurs, "Why did she help you?"

He is silent and she demands again, louder, "She's not naturally a freaking philanthropist so _why did she help you_?"

At that moment, her phone buzzes in her pocket and she automatically retrieves it. Her heart is thudding in her chest, a strange anticipation in the air as she brings the device to her ear and answers it – all the while returning his burning stare. David's gruff voice, lined by anxiety, sifts through the phone's speaker.

"Elsa's missing – Anna hasn't been able to find her since this afternoon but she couldn't get through to us because we were down at the docks with Killian…"

The rest of his sentence fades to a buzz and Emma tells him, in a dangerously calm voice, that she'll call him back. Her hands are already shaking (and not because she's cold). With a rough gesture, she thrusts the phone back in her pocket only to stalk forward and shove him backwards with enough force that he nearly trips.

Based on his deliberately impassive countenance, he's aware of her understanding enough not to question why she's lashed out.

"You were a distraction!" she manages through heaving breaths – the air becoming too thin so she's panting unevenly, "You were a distraction so she could take Elsa! That's why you didn't kill Belle outright – you needed an audience! You needed us to stay out of her way – that's why she helped you!" Killian doesn't say a word but continues to stare, his mouth pulled into a taut line across his face. Emma chews her lip to hide the way it trembles, and as seconds pass he still says nothing.

To her surprise, he does eventually break the silence and she is reminded with excruciating detail as to why words are the most powerful weapons this world has ever wielded.

"The Snow Queen agreed to provide me with the means for my revenge if I provided her a suitable diversion," he imparts in a monotone voice, "I don't expect your understanding, nor do I want it because, quite frankly, I couldn't give less of a damn what you and your band of heroes thinks of me. So, if you're finished harassing me, I'd appreciate it if you kindly refrained from approaching me again."

Emma feels winded by the time he's finished, gaping at him (it was all completely honest, not even a hint of a lie in his carefully constructed statements). The lack of empathy in his hard features makes her think this might be a bad dream, but the brittle air has finally started to attack her skin so she feels colder than she has in a long time. Distantly, she can't help but wonder if it's really the weather that's drained the warmth from her.

Later, she'll blame the weather's effect on what happens next.

"You were one of us once," she murmurs numbly.

Somehow, it takes him off guard and he frowns.

"What?"

Emma takes a steadying breath that does nothing for her erratic breathing. If anything, the stillness of this moment makes it easier for her to feel the punishing thud of her heart against her ribcage.

"I said, you were one of us. You were one of the idiots in that _band of heroes_ and you helped me save everyone and everything in this goddamned town more than once," she adds, staring boldly up at him.

He shakes his head at her, wearing the same expression an adult would as it scorns a petulant child, "You don't even know me, love."

For some reason, it's those words that tip the scale. Such a simple phrase, yet everything it entails is like a harsh blow to the chest that leaves her gasping for breath. Without warning, she is overwhelmed by a tempest of emotions; ire, grief, anguish, and all colliding within her as he dismisses her like it's nothing. And not even for the first time this week.

Of all the things she ever expected from Killian Jones – it was _never_ this.

Emma's voice is high and breathy as she says, "Are you kidding me?"

It's enough to catch his attention because his gaze refocuses on her with a depth she hasn't seen the likes of in weeks. She inhales deeply (shakily) and continues (it feels oddly like déjà vu, only this time she is not on the receiving end of this soliloquy), "I probably know you better than you know yourself – and that's what makes this all so much worse; that you don't remember who you are –"

Killian scoffs, "I know exactly who I am –"

And then she breaks.

"But _you don't_!" her voice cracks as it rises, "That's the thing!" Before she can stop it, her bottom lip is trembling uncontrollably and her eyes are stinging and her breath is coming in short, sharp, painful pants.

The tint of her own anguish doesn't allow her to see the faintest glimpse of concern in his intense gaze.

A beat of silence passes and she runs a hand through her hair, trying and failing to calm her breathing. She's screwed anyway so she might as well shoot herself to hell. When she begins again, her voice is low; tired and cracking and broken.

"You once told me you hated the smell of smoke because it reminded you of your father. You love rain but only because you relate it to the sea, which is the only place in the entire world you feel at home."

His face is forcibly impassive but she can see the stirrings of surprise at the truth she relays. It is a minor reaction compared to the change in demeanour that occurs when she says the next part – imparting details so close to home it proves her previous place in his life with undeniable precision. "You inherited the Jolly Roger after your brother died and you became a pirate because you believed there was more honour among them than royalty. But even then, surrounded by crime and cruelty, you stood by your own convoluted vision of good form because you didn't want to disappoint Liam! You were, and always have been, _terrified _of disappointing him because he was all you had growing up."

Killian swallows thickly and she can't see his face anymore, her vision blurred with tears that she refuses to shed over him. But she can't help but go on, proving to him with each syllable that she _does _know him. "Gold killed Milah in front of you, tore out her heart and crushed it on the very same deck where you lost your brother! For so, _so _long you couldn't see anything but revenge and hatred and darkness. And then you met Milah's son and when he found out who you were, he rejected you too and it _broke _you! You lost yourself and you were broken, are broken _now_…"

A tear slips free, tracing a humiliating path down her cheek and she can finally see him again. His jaw is locked, eyes intent on hers as she tries to dispel the uncomfortable feeling of hardness mounted just beneath her breastbone.

Emma shrugs hopelessly, "And you traded that very same ship you called your home a year ago just for the _chance _to see me again."

This morsel of information shocks him more than everything else combined. Until now, he's been under the impression that it simply disappeared, no one having told him the root of its absence because they knew it would make him hate her more than he already does. Yet his reaction doesn't suggest hatred that she is the reason he doesn't have the only remaining link to everyone he ever loved. No, it looks like the sidewalk has just disappeared from beneath him.

But she's done – she's exhausted in every way possible. She's sick of feeling the way she does, like there's a constant pressure on her lungs and a vice around her heart. Wiping roughly at the wetness on her cheeks, she turns around and starts to retreat down the dark, yellow-lit street.

Killian's familiar lilting voice beckons her, an indiscernible note of pleading woven subtly between sounds, "Swan –"

She stops but she does not turn, "No, _don't_. Just… just don't, okay?" Her pace is steadfast down the sidewalk and she almost chokes on the words that feel heavy on her tongue, "I'm done."

So consumed by her own pain, she doesn't realise until she's wrapped safely in her quilt back at the apartment that it's the first time he's used her pet name since he lost his memories.

8888

Deep in the pits of Killian's stomach, he feels a familiar stirring as she walks away.

But it evaporates before it can fully take shape, swallowed by the coldness in his that leeches the intrinsic warmth of this town, these people, _her_.

Continuing his path down the main thoroughfare, Killian Jones swears it was guilt that knotted his gut just moments ago – the first inkling of something remotely sympathetic he's experienced since awakening in this strange realm. But that is of no matter, he has places to be and people to see.

* * *

**I live for reviews - seriously, let me know how you're feeling. I feed off your pain.**


	3. Part Two: Begin Again

**So I'm going to go through this again in the morning but I figured y'all wouldn't mind an update. BEHOLD THE ANGST!**

* * *

**Part Two: Begin Again**

There is something to be said for the heart's authority over the mind. Scientists claim that the brain is the organ which controls anatomical functions but, as Emma learns with every day that slips by, there's something about the muscle caged between the ribs that seemingly overrides it at the most inopportune moments.

She's angry – _hell, _she's furious.

With him, with herself, with the Snow Queen.

They do not yet understand the source of his personality revolt, nor have they identified the anchor for this memory charm. And she tells herself she doesn't care (it's at times like these that she hates her ability to sense falsehoods). Logically, his actions aren't inherently irredeemable; she and her family know that this version of him is a distortion and someone he was working hard to destroy. The Killian Jones they know would be appalled and ashamed of the past week. So they can't hold it against the person they had been gradually integrating into their family.

But that is little consolation for Emma.

It certainly doesn't erase the scar tissue in the cavity of her chest that's being rubbed raw.

And so comes the battle between her heart and her brain. The former urges her to hold hope in a voice that is startlingly reminiscent of her mother; it begs her to stay resolute, to fight, to embody the same patience he exhibited with steadfast resilience. It duels with the latter, the disembodied tone of reason reprimanding her for her foolishness. _That_ voice, in all its orotund glory, is the same one that has dictated her actions since she was an orphan in the foster system.

But for the first time in her life, it does not instantly drown out the more dulcet tones of her mutinous heart. For that, she half-heartedly blames her parents and their contagious optimism.

So while she may _try_ to fit herself to the safety of a mould which is devoid of emotion, she simply cannot do it. Every single time she thinks she has perfected the science of taciturnity, angling herself to mimic the strong outline of a woman unaffected by his absence, she'll remember something. Like the way he smiles when he is sincerely happy; the dimples that pull at his cheeks, the wrinkles that form by his eyes, the way he sways off-kilter like a bird readying to take flight.

It's an expression she's not seen in an exceedingly long time (she should have cherished it when it was freely given to her).

Try as she might, Emma cannot relinquish his hold on her. Which means, for all that she feels indignant and betrayed (oh, the irony of role reversal), she cannot bring herself to let go. She may have told him she was done, she may say to herself that she is done, she may even broadcast to her family and the entire population of Storybrooke that she is finished with the never-ending ache that his mental oblivion prompts.

The unfortunate truth is that he is far too deeply ingrained within her to even attempt to remove. She pretends she's succeeding anyway.

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

8888

"What do you want, Miss Swan?" Gold asks coldly when she sweeps into the pawn shop, shaking off the snow clinging to her as she walks across the threshold. Raising her head, she notes that he is standing opposite his wife and it appears as though they were in the midst of an argument when she interrupted. Emma stills momentarily, weighing up whether she should backtrack or trudge on with what she intended to ask him.

Belle, however, speaks before she can say a word, a gentle insistence in her soothing voice. She hasn't taken her attention from Gold, "Hello Emma, I was just telling my husband here that we've got work to do. So," she roughly yanks a heavy book from his hands, holding it at arm's length when he tries to snatch it back, "I'll need _this_."

Emma frowns, unsure whether the appropriate response is amusement or bemusement. She settles for a combination of the two.

The pawn broker's frustration manifests in an indignant expression, his glare softening as he turns it on Belle.

"No, we _won't_. I refuse to pursue this nonsense after what happened. I'll not have his actions go without consequences," he growls, reaching for the thick manuscript and failing to grab it when she takes it out of range. It wouldn't surprise Emma entirely if the man stamped his foot in vexation at any minute but that thought is overridden by realisation. She quickly pieces together the root of their disagreement.

Belle glares at him, "You should know by now not to tell me what to do so if you don't want to help, _fine_. But you can't stop me from looking – we need to help him –"

"He tried to _kill _you –"

"It's not his fault. And besides, he didn't_ succeed–_ "

"Only because Miss Swan managed to scrounge up a magical miracle from her severely deficient skill base –"

"All the more reason we should help. You owe her my life – you haven't even thanked her yet."

At this point, they both turn to Emma. Belle is smiling amiably. Gold simply purses his lips. Though obviously unimpressed, he visibly struggles to counter his wife's logic when he returns his attention to her, opening and closing his mouth to respond several times before groaning and pivoting again to address Emma. The brunette takes it as her cue to leave and grins victoriously, patting him on the shoulder as she disappears into the backroom – throwing Emma a reassuring nod before she leaves.

"What do you want, Miss Swan?" he asks again as he leans on the glass counter, exasperated.

She takes a second to reply, especially after having witnessed the lovers spat directly involving her. But the man either ignores that fact or dismisses it entirely, quickly growing impatient when she says nothing. There is no need for preamble – there never is with this man. Not that it's something she's terribly resentful of, she's actually grateful that she isn't forced to endure small talk with the decidedly unpleasant sorcerer.

Emma drops his gaze out of nervous habit and bites the bullet, "I wanted to ask - why haven't you tried to kill Killian yet? Why didn't you kill him at the docks when you had the chance?"

His eyebrows ascend sceptically, "Are you assuming I haven't tried or succeeded?"

She glowers and he rolls his eyes.

"Belle would never allow it, dearie – your pirate is safe from me so long as she deems his existence necessary," he answers with a hint of sarcasm but the half-truth is obvious in the way he flits his eyes away from hers at the last second. He doesn't offer her another answer, and she leaves without pushing it.

She thinks the honest answer might be too confronting for them both.

8888

Her head is down as she exits her apartment building later that week, thoughts scattered like leaves across a cracked sidewalk. She follows her every step, watching the way the she leaves a snowy imprint with each shuffle forward. Unfortunately, with her focus otherwise occupied, she has no way of noticing the figure walking directly towards her until, with a loud _oomph_, she comes into contact with his chest.

Stumbling back and looking up, a dumbbell drops on her chest.

Killian watches her warily, no doubt preparing for another unprecedented emotional outburst. Emma instantly folds her arms across her chest and takes a measured step back; the pain is still fresh. And, as she bitterly recalls, he wants to be left alone.

Avoiding his eyes, she makes to step around him but his hook catches her elbow. She recoils from the touch like she's been burned and pivots to face him, expression already schooled into monotony.

"I have to get to a town meeting - what do you want?" she demands as his gaze dances across her face. If he is searching for any signs of residual hurt, he is going to be sorely disappointed. It is buried deep beneath her pride, a headstone of emotional walls resting atop the fresh grave she's erected for her vulnerabilities. After a short moment, he stops trying to scrutinise her and inhales deeply.

"As a matter of fact, I was seeking you out," he says, surprising her so much she falters momentarily.

Emma regains her composure with a slight shake of her head, forcibly reminding herself of his cruel demeanour when he told her, in summary, to 'bugger off.' With the memory of his scowl vibrant in her mind's eye, she easily adopts a strident tone when she retorts, "That's strange. Just the other night you asked me to avoid you from now on." His features twitch in something close to a wince, but she simply ploughs on, "So if you're working for the Snow Queen again, let me save you the trouble." Again, she attempts to take a step away from him but he simply tugs her back.

"_Actually_," he says, clearly uncomfortable with any interaction that doesn't involve cursing, spitting or insulting his arch nemesis, "I came to inform you that I've made a decision regarding my unfinished business with the crocodile."

She stiffens, eyes widening in confusion until he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. Killian scratches his wrist with his hook.

"I've decided to temporarily refrain from any attempts on the crocodile's life until your town's foe has been dispatched."

She is unashamed of the way her jaw drops in visible disbelief. But he's being completely honest, which is why alarm bells toll in her head at the outwardly hospitable decision. Tilting her head down so she can scrutinise him through her eyelashes, Emma asks, "What prompted this?"

The pirate shrugs, "I've realised the error of my ways in indirectly aiding her cause."

_Lie._

It is to her infinite lack of surprise that he withholds the truth, but it still disappoints her – dousing the irrepressible flame of hope that appeared at his initial resolution. She tries in vain to disregard the harsh blow it delivers to know that he has lied to her more in the past twenty-four hours than he had since he met her. Heaving a sigh, Emma shakes her head, "Try again. Or did you forget about my super power?"

He frowns, narrowing his eyes in a gesture that completely augments his previously open demeanour. His shoulders curl forwards slightly and his features tighten in distaste. "A magically acquired skill, no doubt?" he leers.

Thankfully, by now she is practiced in the art of disguising her reactions to him; having perfected it hours ago as she sat physically and emotionally enervated in her bed just thinking about this.

Emma glares, "Actually, I've been able to detect bullshit since before I even knew I had magic so piss off." She spins on her heel to stalk away, under the impression that distance will give her some superficial brand of protection from the pain he's inflicting every second he doesn't remember her. But he won't even allow her that and pursues her – and she wants to hate him for it, even if it encourages the tiny, insignificant voice that still clings to the faith he will, at the very least, one day remember how it was to care about her.

His footsteps are loud as they land in the snow behind her and he manages to stop her when he stands directly in her path. The fire in her eyes doesn't diminish when she raises her head to look at him again.

"If you're trying to distract me from another calamity or kidnapping or _something_, I'm going to punch you in the face - _again_," she warns him with palpable scorn. A ghost of a smirk crosses his features at the threat so the ache in her chest returns tenfold – every time he unwittingly does something familiar to her, it hurts. She chews on the inside of her lip to keep from grimacing.

Killian shakes his head at that and inhales deeply, "I'm not intentionally keeping you occupied for the Snow Queen's purposes, but I thought it was necessary to tell you so you may focus your efforts on the icy sorceress." It's the truth but something still smells off, she just can't put her finger on it. But she'd also rather blind herself with cotton buds than try to figure it out right now.

"Whatever," she says dismissively, giving him a wide berth so he cannot bodily stop her this time.

"You're not curious as to why?"

"The more you talk, the more I think you're trying to distract me," she throws over her shoulder, watching him shrug.

"Well, I'm sorry about Elsa."

She stills – and not just because it is an apology. Because he's lying – and every iota of her self-control flies away on furious wings. He doesn't care about what he did; he's more concerned with finding a grinding stone for his hook than what happened the other day. She doesn't know what he's playing at but her tolerance levels have been grievously surpassed. Turning slowly to face him, she shakes her head.

"Stop lying to me," she breathes, dangerously quiet, "Say what you want, do what you want and do it for whatever godforsaken reason you want… but stop lying – because I don't trust a thing you say anyway."

He considers her silently, drinking in the image she presents – fists clenched, eyes deceptively calm so as to artfully hide the inferno that rages within, mouth set in a thin line. Emma holds his gaze for a long second, a silent exchange passing between them, a wordless acknowledgement of the tension that's gradually building just waiting for detonation.

When she finally spins on her heel and heads towards the station, _without _him, her own words play on repeat in her head like a broken record.

_I don't trust a thing you say. _

The worst part is that it's true. She no longer trusts him, she no longer knows him.

And it's as though a piece of immaculate embroidery is gradually becoming unstitched. The threads falling loose from the fabric, unspooling to fall in a coiling pile on the cold hard ground. Something beautiful is being painstakingly destroyed.

8888

For a town with a baffling penchant for disaster, they still manage to treat each new villain with a level naiveté and inexperience that makes it impossible to staunch the frustration pooling in her gut. They are gathered in the Sheriff's station and the topic of discussion has moved on to the plan for the Snow Queen's defeat. Leroy takes centre stage first, belligerently declaring that they must hunt her down and send her back to Arendelle or some other vacant realm (as if they haven't already tried that).

Anna protests immediately to the plan, as does her male counterpart Kristoff, insisting that they must focus on retrieving her sister safely. Emma's mother and father suggest they try to reason with the villainous woman, maintaining the stereotypically liberal view seemly of two democratic rulers. It takes only a moment for the voices to grow louder, tones turning to whetting stones for words as the room descends into argument and Emma's fists clench at her sides.

She knows precisely what she would like to do to the frosty bitch: and it's definitely something her parents would consider unorthodox of a leader.

Her attention floats to the world outside the station, watching the occasional passer-by through the window as they dawdle down the snow-covered street. That's when she sees him, his black leather a stark contrast to his bleached out surroundings. His face is devoid of any traceable emotion, drawn and tight. But he's not heading in the direction of Gold's shop so she doesn't feel any predominant sense of alarm (he may have told her he would no longer be making attempts on the pawnbroker's life but that does not extinguish the threat he still presents).

In fact, all it does is re-establish the thick blanket of fury smothering her where she sits, the other night's confrontation flashing in her mind's eye. She's already cast off the crippling need to make him care; severing every connection days ago (her wounds are raw enough that it feels like mere hours have transpired since her voice cracked and her eyes stung). A voice in the back of her mind chuckles scornfully, mocking her for thinking she could ever simply terminate what she feels for him.

It aggravates the bubbling pit of emotion in her gut; at the unacknowledged fact that he should be here, in this room, murmuring some stupid comment in her ear about the town's tendency to attract not only danger but apparently stupidity. Her lips twitch involuntarily at the mere thought. But he's not here – she is alone in this cacophonous hub.

The voices around her are suddenly too loud, the walls closer than before, the air thicker to swallow. The room is in a state of chaos that she cannot contain nor tolerate.

"_Everyone shut up_!"

Emma's words boom through the station and, strangely enough, they are effective. Several pairs of startled eyes fly in her direction and the voices swiftly die out. She schools her features to maintain the indomitable facade and stands, pulling herself up to her full height.

"Yelling at each other will do nothing, and Anna is right – our first focus has to be on getting Elsa back first. So here's what is going to happen…"

Her instructions are brusque; they will scour the town and surrounding woods and, if any traces of Arendelle's rightful queen are found, they will be reported back to Emma or her parents. Under no circumstances is anyone to engage the Snow Queen should they encounter her (that honour is reserved for Emma alone). After they have located the missing woman, they will restore their attention to their latest foe.

The dwarves appear slightly cowed by her governing stance in the group, but no one protests and they form several smaller clusters. Certain that they can handle the small, menial task she has assigned without wreaking havoc, Emma exits the Sheriff Station.

No one has mentioned Killian or the dilemma he presents – and she doubts they will (it's a small respite but she's grateful for it nonetheless).

For once, the cold air is welcoming; it stings her skin slightly, biting at the tips of her nose and ears, but it carries with it an invigorating sensation that cannot be imitated. Gulping down a lungful of the pure atmosphere, she closes her eyes and leans against the rough brick wall. It doesn't take long for someone to breach her solitude.

With a loud click, the door beside her opens and shuts. She can feel a presence beside her but does not bother opening her eyes to see who it is, so she waits as the person walks slowly towards her, their footsteps crunching against the heavy layer of snow that has become a permanent fixture across every outdoor surface in town. A shoulder brushes hers, the newcomer leaning against the wall beside her.

Although she wants to maintain an air of intimidation (enough that people will leave her alone), she cannot help her curiosity when the person doesn't speak. Eventually, she gives in to her baser desires, cracking one eye open to identify the man beside her as David.

He's watching her carefully and Emma sighs, irritation flaring up without warning.

"What's wrong? Has Leroy tried to stage a mutiny?" she remarks bitterly, screwing her eyes shut again. Her father merely sighs.

"No, they're sorting it out," he pauses and clears his throat, lowering his voice tenderly, "Are you okay, Emma?"

Snorting, she shrugs with great exaggeration and shakes her head – eyes still closed against her glaringly white surroundings, "Yeah, I'm _great_." Even though she knows it's not his fault by any reasonable measure, his unfortunate timing has placed him directly in her crosshairs. She knows he won't take it personally, but the fact that she's directing her anger at him still provokes guilt in her.

David's eyes are hot on her face and she doesn't need to open hers to know there are sympathetic lines creasing his forehead.

"Emma, I… I know you don't want to talk about it," he begins hesitantly, "but I know what you're going through."

The revelation is enough to make her eyes break open, and she turns her head to shoot him an incredulous look. Her father nods, reaffirming the statement and she waits for him to explain.

Emma doesn't say anything but she drags her eyes away from him, looking out across the street and anywhere but him. David's voice already holds enough weight that watching his facial expressions would be a pointless exercise. With rough vowels and calloused consonants, he tells her hesitantly, "I know what you're going through – with Killian, I mean."

"How could you know?" she croaks weakly, marginally appalled by the smallness of her voice.

But David just takes it in his stride, wisely refraining from commenting on her vulnerability.

"When your mother thought we could never be together, she took a potion from Rumplestiltskin that made her forget me and it nearly blackened her heart – she lost sight of love. She was darker than I've ever seen her – she was going to murder Regina, _nearly did_ as a matter of fact."

He takes a deep breath.

"Anyway… when I tried to remind her of who she was and who I was… well, she knocked me unconscious with a rock and tied me to a tree."

Against her will, the image of her mother binding her father to a stump is amusing enough that it tilts the corners of her lips ever so slightly up. They never have been a functional married couple. David pretends not to notice and persists in his anecdote, a smile in his voice when he rolls his shoulder and winces reminiscently.

"I had to take an arrow to the shoulder to get her to calm down enough to recognise that I was genuinely in love with her and that what we had was real."

A beat of quiet stillness follows and, from the corner of her eye, Emma notes the fond, nostalgic smirk he wears. It's only when she finally offers him her full attention, looking directly at him, that he adds, "My point is… I never gave up on her." His next words are a surprise to say the least.

"And you shouldn't give up on Killian – not _yet_, anyway."

Not that she'd been chronicling the state of affairs between the two men but she couldn't recall the moment they clearly became close enough for her father to unwittingly admit his approval. She knows that Killian saved him in Neverland and she knows that they had discovered a bucket-load of common ground since then.

Most recently, she knows that they worked together when she was trapped with Elsa in the ice cave before the Snow Queen was even on their radar (it occurs to her that while she was freezing to death, her father may have observed a thing or two about him). Yet, it is still somewhat befuddling to hear the prince speak of the pirate's internal restoration with such determination.

Especially since he knows as well as she does that he was an accessory to Elsa's disappearance.

Although, his encouragement may _also_ simply be a case of her family's irritating proclivity for instilling hope in every living, breathing thing they encounter.

"David, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep…" the words die in her throat and Emma lets out a heavy breath, searching the ground for answers, "I can't keep deluding myself into thinking –"

"Emma, can I ask you something?" he cuts her off.

There's an undefinable tilt to the words but she nods and waits intently for his impending inquiry. He holds her gaze.

"If this situation were reversed – if you lost your memories and rejected him at every turn - would he give up on you?" David asks and Emma's chest collapses in on itself because she knows the answer. Not only does she _know _the answer, she's _lived through _the answer. It's still fresh in her mind, the way she'd treated him in New York when he was just some crazy guy with great eyes and a pirate get-up.

In an identical situation, when Emma even went to the extent of having him arrested, he _still_ refused to give up on her (stupid, determined idiot). Autumn leaves sway and rustle in the back of her mind, a golden-lit park teeming with life and colour as ice blue eyes implored her to _believe_. Tears burn her eyes without warning and she turns away from her father again, facing the empty street and tightening her grip on herself.

She blinks back the tears and bottles the emotion the same way she's been bottling things for the past week. It probably isn't a healthy approach – but it makes things easier to compartmentalize. The tears dry up, but the ache in her chest lingers.

David doesn't need her to answer, her reaction is enough, and his voice returns to the soothing timbre to which she has become accustomed at times like these.

"You can't give up on him just yet."

Her father, ever the optimist.

If only she had inherited that particular trait.

8888

Another snow monster stages an attack on the town – this one twice as large and, as she quickly gleans, twice as easy to provoke. And by that, she means the thing destroys everything in sight. This time, when she chases the sounds of people's screams towards the city centre, she doesn't have someone at her back and she certainly doesn't have someone to land on when she is blown off her feet by a sudden gust of wind.

Brushing herself off, Emma continues to make a path down the main road to where the giant hulking figure is loitering. Mercifully, most of the residents of Storybrooke have made the astute decision to remain indoors.

She chases it cautiously, jumping into alleys when it turns around and ducking behind signs when it tilts. She generally stays out of its line of sight as much as possible, drawing her gun even though it probably looks foolish (it's a safety-blanket thing, she swears – it's not like she's ever actually had success using the modern weapon on magical creatures).

When she's not far from its feet, she tucks the gun away and flexes her fingers. Regina taught her a little something shortly after the first case of a rampant snow monster. At the time, the woman had given her the lesson under the guise of frustration, claiming she refused to be the only competent magic wielder in future situations of a similar nature. Tapping into the severely diminished reservoir of power she has available (it's been difficult to call on since…well, she shoves that confronting thought away), Emma focuses her energy on producing heat in her palms first.

Her fingertips are just beginning to tingle when she is jerked backwards, a strong arm coming around her waist as a hand clamps down over her mouth to muffle the startled cry that tries to escape. She wrestles with her captor until she is released, spinning around instantly and groaning inwardly.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses under her breath and Killian's eyes flick from her to the mass of snow and ice clumping away from them.

"Saving your arse, apparently," he responds irritably, rubbing his chest where she elbowed him.

Shock reverberates within her for several beats, jaw slack with it, but then she's shaking her head and pointing in the opposite direction, "I don't need you to save me – get out of here!" It should hearten her that her safety has somehow made an appearance in his severely limited list of priorities, but she's not stupid or naïve enough to be lulled into a false sense of security. If he's doing this, there's an ulterior motive – she just hasn't defined what it is yet.

When she makes no move to follow him, he stares at her like she's grown a second head.

"What do you think you're going to do? You may have magic but you're as skilled with it as a bloody infant," he reprimands sharply, "Wait for Regina or the Dark One."

There he is – _there's_ the insufferable ass hole that woke up in place of her boyfriend.

She's still baffled though; in what universe does this version of Killian give two shits about her well-being? His mindset completely revolves around revenge and scheming, or has done since the moment he opened his eyes and asked her who she is.

His words do sting, of course, especially since the last time they were confronted with a snow monster he was encouraging her with a soft tilt of his lips and a shine in his eyes. The belittling way he tries to dissuade her now is enough to convince her she is dealing with someone separate to the man she knew.

Emma shakes off the depressing thoughts, focusing instead on Killian who is glowering impatiently.

"If you want to leave, _leave_ – but I'm not going anywhere until this thing is down," she sneers and, just because she wants to wound him, adds fiercely, "_I'm _not a coward." It's petty and spiteful, but it provides her with a cruel satisfaction when his expression falters. He gawks at her like he's been sucker punched, but then the fire returns to his features and he straightens, jaw locking stubbornly.

"_Fine then_, how do you suppose we kill it?" he spits sharply, following her when she jogs down the street again (there's a split second where she forgets about his lost memories, where it feels like just another day hurtling after disaster). Emma stops cold when she sees it starting to turn its bulbous head, frantically searching for a crevice they can disappear behind.

Killian is two steps ahead of her though, his hand wrapping tightly around her elbow and yanking her into a doorway after him. Before she can fully process what is happening, he has her pressed bodily against the pane of a glass door, shrouded from view within the indent of the doorframe.

She holds her breath, waiting for the snow monster 2.0 to send them careening with a deafening roar (she was sure it had seen them that time). But a minute passes and nothing happens – and neither one is game enough to crane their neck to confirm that the monster's attention has returned to its trail down main street.

Another minute passes, and then there's a distant thump – and then another, and another, and they sigh a simultaneous breath of relief as they listen to it move further away. Only then does she register how little space exists between them.

She can feel his breath on her face.

Glancing up to his eyes, she sees him studying her – a note of curiosity laced subtly between the pillars of apathy which support his elaborate façade. And _god_, deep down does she want to stay like that, to simply let him watch her and perhaps figure out that he _knows_ her (that he, at the very least, _cares _about her). But his gaze drops, he steps away and she clears her throat as she brushes past him, cradling her bruised heart. Her skin prickles where he touched her.

They chase the snow monster another two blocks until she has another window of opportunity to sneak up on it. His eyebrows draw together the moment she begins her approach and she turns, exasperation written across her face.

She cannot help but throw his own words back at him (even if he doesn't remember them), "Try something new. It's called trust."

She waits a second, waits for even the slightest inkling of recognition. Her heart sinks when she is met with a blank stare. Emma dismisses the way it stifles the drum of the magic beating in time with her heart, silently making her way forward. But this time, when she tries to call on the warmth, her fingertips don't prickle. Nothing happens and panic races through her entire body.

It's not working – _it's not working._

The snow monster chooses that moment to turn around; it's graceless figure shuffling slowly until its colossal shadow falls over her. Its eyes are red this time, glowing bright and deadly in its misshapen skull.

"If you're going to do something, best to do it now!" Killian yells from where she left him.

She flexes her fingers, stumbling backwards. Still nothing.

"I _can't_!"

Behind her, she can hear him curse just before the animated element's incomprehensible voice thunders a bone-rattling cry. The ground disappears from beneath her feet, wind whipping her face as she is thrust backwards. When she hits the snow-shielded ground, winded, she tilts her head to the side automatically and is met by the slightly blurry image of Killian racing across the street towards her.

He yanks her up without preamble and she can hear the high-pitched keen of ice scraping against ice. His face is set in a scowl, but he still slings her arm over his shoulder before he darts off with her in tow. Looking over her shoulder, the blood solidifies in her veins.

It's chasing them. And it's gaining.

"Bloody idiot, you are," he mutters furiously just before they are both thrown off their feet. Her arm escapes his purchase as they fall forward into the snow, and Emma grunts at the impact.

Whipping around, she expects to see an abnormally large fist decorated with icicles raining down towards her.

Instead, she's met with an image that makes her blood curdle.

The snow monster is plodding leisurely towards Killian who sailed through the air at a different angle to her and thus landed a fair distance to her left. He is just pushing himself into a semi-reclining position when it stands over him and wrenches back its bulky arm, unintelligible noises falling from its jagged mouth as it prepares to crush him.

Her heart lurches and, somehow, that kick-starts the flow of power through her body. Unthinkingly, Emma reaches forward. Something sizzles in the air and then the Snow Monster is collapsing, a toiling ball of fire melting it from the inside out. It is a puddle on the ground in a matter of seconds and she stares at the space where it used to be with wide eyes.

On the ground, Killian shifts to face her with an equally confounded expression.

She drops his gaze and stands, brushing herself off and limping towards him. He is standing when she reaches him and she folds her arms across her chest, a new question already racing around her head.

"Why?"

Killian frowns in obvious confusion and she stares up at him.

"Why did you try to save me at first? And again, just then? Why do _you _care?"

His eyes dart away from hers but her sights remain locked on his face as it goes carefully blank. There is no reason for him to want her alive, not when he thinks of her as a despicable magic-wielder under Rumplestiltskin's thumb. But then, maybe even in this state he abides by good form. She's sceptical of that though, because it didn't stop him from making a crude attempt on Belle's life (she refuses to believe that the man who shot a dozen flying monkeys didn't _deliberately_ shoot her in the shoulder all that time ago).

Not for the first time, Emma senses something is off.

Killian shrugs.

"Can't help myself when there's a damsel in distress," he lies and she just shakes her head.

"You know, I'm starting to think you're deaf because you're _still _having a hard time getting the whole 'I can sense lies' thing," she bites back, irritation flaring up inside her. Like a rash that climbs her neck, she can feel the flames of indignation licking their way across her ribs. They climb higher with every passing second.

His glare returns and his eyebrows ascend his forehead, "You can't just say 'thank you' and leave it at that?"

"Nope," she answers, "I saved your life. We're even. Now, _why_?"

He never answers her. Another beat of silence passes and he just shoots her a dirty look before he pivots on the spot, striding angrily down the street. She chooses deliberately to ignore the thick layer of misunderstanding that was hidden deftly by his anger. If she weren't so buried in her own divine shit-storm, she might say his irritation is rooted in the same lack of comprehension plaguing her. Like he can't quite grasp the precise reason he'd tried to save her either.

In the same way, she can't quite come to terms with her inability to just _let him go_ (it had never been this difficult before).

Instead she focuses on the surface emotion, which is ignorant on her part, but it's safe. She'd rather try to understand his ulterior motive than ponder the suggestion that he might not actually know why he cared enough to save her.

That would make her hope. And Emma Swan can't afford to harbour hope.

8888

When she asks Regina why her magic didn't initially work the second time, she is reminded that magic is inexplicably linked to emotion. Her eyes drop and she doesn't lodge any further inquiries, nodding meekly and shuffling away. The Evil Queen doesn't need to say anything else – because Emma remembers the way her power dulled when he couldn't remember the phrase that was almost a hallmark for them. It was the disappointment linked hand in hand with his unfamiliarity, the flame dying out within her that prompted the mollification of her magic.

The only reason she was able to eventually employ her skills was because his life was in jeopardy. In that moment, with Killian's neck in a figurative noose, her natural response had been to cut the rope and destroy the threat to his life. She does not wish to inspect the emotions that were linked to the reaction, but she is all too aware of them: _true _desperation, _true _fear, and something else.

Emma scorns herself for her stupidity.

_Magic is emotion._

Heedless of the facts, she tries all afternoon to do something, _anything_ – staring at cutlery until her eyes sting and her forehead throbs, her attempts to teleport the tiny metallic pieces to the table inherently fruitless. When Gold told them that Killian was a target designed to cripple her emotionally and thus magically, it hadn't occurred to her just how deep the ribbons of that particular ramification would reach.

Now she knows.

Magic is emotion and it seems that he is both the key to her control and the catalyst to her undoing.

8888

It is late in the afternoon, almost evening, and the boy is seated neatly on the curb outside the grand white abode, a large leather-bound book in hand. His expression is drawn in concentration as he reads, brown eyes tracing the page before he turns it with the scratch of paper against paper. In the early stages of adolescence, his lanky limbs present no threat – yet Killian still finds himself uncertain as to how or even whether he should approach him.

It's ludicrous that the child manages to have such a profound sway over him, but nevertheless he does. Whether that is because of his parentage or because of the unabashed approach that all children seem to take, he's not entirely certain.

Eventually, however, Killian takes the plunge and makes a quick path down the sidewalk towards Henry. The kid looks up at his approach and, as his brown eyes assess him, he suddenly regrets his decision. For a fleeting second, he almost feels like he should sit down and ruffle his shaggy brown hair affectionately – but it passes when it is swallowed by coldness, leaving idle curiosity and innate discomfort in its wake.

As he comes to a stop before Henry, the pirate opens his mouth to speak. But the words get caught in his throat as the boy just continues to stare. That's how the first ten seconds slip away, in cold silence. Henry clearly does not have any affinity for him – evidenced by the distrust etched into his youthful face.

But he's not here to explain himself – he's here for something else entirely, something that's been plaguing him for days now. Well, he's here for that and one other thing that, for some reason, brings forth the same feelings of guilt that made a brief appearance the other night.

"I need your help," he says pithily.

Henry raises his eyebrows sceptically, "Elsa's missing because of you."

Killian won't deny the child's accusation, "Aye."

"And you _were_ sided with the Snow Queen."

"I know."

The anger in his small voice shouldn't affect him as much as it does when he says, "And you really hurt my mom."

That same niggling feeling that's been grappling with him for days returns with full force as Emma Swan's pained expression haunts him not for the first time (he's lost count and it infuriates him). The barest lilt of shame curls his voice and he has a greater difficulty smothering his wince when he returns with, "I know."

Henry's eyes narrow marginally, scrutinising Killian's face and subsequent reaction to the strange preamble. The silence stretches out and the pirate prepares to turn around and leave, internally muttering _this was a preposterous idea in the first place._ However, whatever the kid was looking for in his expression, he apparently finds because the scowl fades into an endearing sort of arrogance that only children can successfully wield.

"What do you need my help with?"

Killian's eyes widen in surprise but he's quick to the uptake – life on the seven seas enforces that trait on a man. With his gaze darting around on the ground, in a similarly scattered state to his hazy mind, he finally makes his request (even if it does take longer than usual with Henry's penetrative gaze fixed on his face).

"I… I need you to, uh, help me with… well, I'd appreciate knowing what exactly it is that I've forgotten."

His entreaty is met with the ghost of a placated smile on the boy's face. However, it passes before the older man can truly comprehend its meaning. Henry's face twists in thought and he purses his lips in contemplation. Having sailed many a port, he recognizes the prelude to extortion well and braces himself for the price of this assistance. This is definitely a child born from within the lineage of the Dark One.

Of course, Henry is only a child so the trade will not be obscene. But, unexplainably, it still makes him anxious enough as he waits.

Finally, the lad raises one thin finger, "One condition"

Killian nods, wordlessly asking that he name it.

There is a startling amount of protective resolve in Henry's eyes and he doesn't stutter once on his words. "Don't ever hurt my mom again, directly or indirectly." Killian stares blindly at him for a moment, but he doesn't flinch so the pirate nods stiffly. He thinks, perhaps, that the price could have been far steeper – though he won't acknowledge it, refraining from hurting Emma Swan is a condition he finds himself all too eager to uphold. Something about that woman's anguish makes him feel physically ill (it aggravates him to no end that he has no control over the involuntary reaction).

"Aye, of course lad," he concedes gruffly.

But Henry is determined, brow crunched on his tiny forehead when he stands in an attempt at intimidation, "I'm serious – David's been teaching me to handle a sword."

A smirk begs to break across Killian's face but he knows better than to wound the poor boy's ego. He adopts an impressed stance and lifts his hands in a placating gesture, "I'm sure you're wielding it with the same finesse he displays - consider me warned." He will not be fooled though and Henry maintains a steady frown, waiting for something in particular in the agreement to his sole condition.

The lad's defensive approach to his mother is admirable. It also suggests that his mother has been broken enough times that he is unwilling to watch it happen yet again. That thought in particular pierces him Killian unusual fervency (but, again, the coldness sweeps it away before it develops).

He lowers his voice sincerely and holds the boy's gaze, "You have my word, Henry."

Henry inspects him a moment longer and then, features softening, says "Okay. Well, I don't know everything because my mom didn't tell me too much about how the two of you met but there are some things I can help you with." Instantly, he is reaching for the book he was studying when the pirate first arrived in search of his help, ushering him to sit down on the snow shielded curb. Although slightly perplexed by his abrupt friendliness, Killian does as he is told and falls seamlessly into the rhythm of Henry's voice.

8888

Henry points enthusiastically to the image spread wide across the page, "That's you and that's her – you can take the book if you want? Just read those pages and then you'll be caught up on just about everything you've forgotten."

The picture to which he refers depicts a ballroom, but the focus of the artwork is undoubtedly the couple foregrounded by their central positioning. A woman with blonde hair and a scarlet red dress and a man wearing a brown jacket and a bright grin are pressed close together, hands and arms entwined in the midst of a dance. Killian recognised the woman as Emma the instant the page was turned, but, regardless of how long he looks, he cannot quite reconcile himself in the man opposite her.

That man is happy – elated, even – and the way he stares at her, at _Emma…_

Killian's chest stirs with something that feels familiar even though it should be foreign. It's a sensation that's been building with every vague explanation of their escapades from the boy sitting to his left. Everything feels different, feels wrong and augmented; even his own mind.

Anticipation stitches its way through him and Killian feels like he's standing on the precipice of some great realisation. He's just not certain what it is yet – he has all the evidence in front of him, he knows what it means (really, he needn't look further than the expression on his face as depicted in that image), but every iota of his being purely rejects it. And it feels _wrong._

In his head, he knows that Henry tells the truth and it is only perpetuated every time he reacts in a way that doesn't correspond with what he's come to recognize in the mirror every morning. But his heart is a whole separate matter; every time he thinks an emotion is taking shape, it falls through his fingers like sand. The only residual feelings that ever linger are rage, betrayal, hurt – festering emotions that beg to be picked and re-opened.

And it's frustrating him to an inexpressible degree.

Staring at the ground, Killian takes the book from Henry's outstretched hands, tucking it carefully under his arm and standing up.

"Thank you Henry," he says tonelessly.

His companion isn't cowed in the slightest and he smiles, "No problem." With a heavy feeling in his chest, Killian turns to leave – intent on clearing the haze that muffles the very beating of his heart – but is stopped by the same voice he's listened intently to for the past hour.

"Just one question before you leave," so the pirate turns to face him as Henry reveals the root of his curiosity with frighteningly perceptive eyes, "Why _now_? Why do you only want to know about everything now?"

There is no answer to that question that will satisfy either of them so Killian simply returns with, "It's complicated."

Henry nods in apparent understanding, "Okay." As he pivots to return to his house, Killian poses his own question.

"Why did you agree to help me?" he asks, genuinely befuddled by the boy's willingness to help a man he _knows _to have committed innumerable atrocities (breaking his mother among those). Henry's grin is infectious and all-too-knowing as he looks over his bony shoulder and shrugs nonchalantly, playfully echoing Killian's earlier response.

"It's complicated."

Affection skirts its way through Killian's veins as Emma's son jogs quickly through his front yard, the corners of his lips twitching until the frost in his heart inevitably eats it away. This time, though, the irritation that takes its place is not directed at the boy.

8888

The Snow Queen marches gracefully through the forest, dragging her fingernails along the bark occasionally and relishing in the sound of nature sizzling in dissent under her deathly touch. She grins when she hears footsteps, rotating slowly to face the newcomer. The night sky makes it near-impossible to see, but the moon has provided just enough visual aid tonight that his silhouette is easily identifiable.

It is not unusual for him to take his time when meeting her – after all, he must ensure that the town (that Emma Swan) doesn't know his allegiances still rest with her. He has shrewdly alluded to a more fleeting arrangement. Little do they know just how much help he's been in the past weeks; instigating distractions, scoping the townsfolk, supervising the saviour.

Killian Jones leans against a tree, his typically stoic expression particularly antagonistic this afternoon as he files his hook. She tilts her head as she regards him with an unfriendly smile, "You're late."

"Astute observation, your majesty," he returns dryly, flicking his eyes up to meet hers once.

The Snow Queen lifts a thin eyebrow, startled by the sarcastic quip. She narrows her eyes and glides slowly towards him, studying him carefully, "Where were you?"

Killian's answer falls seamlessly from his tongue, "Avoiding the townsfolk's prying eyes," he looks up at her, a challenging glint in the icy blue depths of his gaze, "unless you _want _them to know I'm still sided with their current arch-nemesis?" The rhetorical question is barbed and her expression darkens momentarily – she does so tire of having to remind people that she is not to be trifled with.

However, there are more pressing issues at hand and she lets the thought slide. Playing absent-mindedly with a leaf, leaving it solid and cold in her hand, she crushes the icy remains to dust.

She paces wordlessly for several moment, all the while watching him from her peripheral vision. As she circles him, she notes the rigidity of his posture and her face becomes tighter. There are several methods she can use to extract the source of his change in demeanour. She feels merciful tonight and employs the simple yet effective use of her words.

"Did you get around to speaking to Emma's boy? Re-establishing some trust?" she asks, eyes intent on every minute variation in the slant of his features, "I need you to infiltrate their circles, Captain."

He appears deep in thought for a long moment. But he doesn't react, and a second later he merely shrugs and lifts his head to meet her scrutiny, "Unfortunately, I could not find the lad." Unlike Emma Swan, the Snow Queen was never blessed with the ability to distinguish truth from falsehoods. Yet, he appears to be just as indifferent towards Henry's part in her plan as he was when she first spoke to him in the days following his amnesia.

She shrugs and traces patterns on the trees with her nails, "Disappointing but I'm sure you can remedy that tomorrow."

She simpers at him, startlingly clear eyes watching him through ebony-black eyelashes. He hums noncommittally and continues to aimlessly pick at his metal appendage. She dislikes his distance this evening.

"By the way," she says, continuing her circular route around him, "excellent work on the Saviour this week, Captain. I need her in one piece so, many thanks for keeping her safe for me. I think you may have even convinced her that you're well on your way to rehabilitation." When he remains silently expressionless, apprehension weaves a tantalising path under her alabaster skin. While she is intolerant to defiance of any nature, she senses that it isn't petty insolence that prompts his behaviour.

Something else is troubling him, so she distracts him with menial questions, "Do they believe you are still aligned with me?"

He shrugs and shakes his head, voice monotonous, "I've no clue – most weren't the wiser in the first place but the ones that were, strangely enough, still treat me with partial favour."

The Snow Queen snorts vindictively and smirks at him when he raises his head, irritation written clearly across his face. She isn't moved in the slightest by his aggravation, "That's probably because in their eyes, your still Emma's pet pirate." His brow furrows marginally – she notes the confusion it denotes and files it away for later consideration. The glimmer of an emotive reaction unsettles her and she steps abruptly forward, forcing him to look at her when she says, "I assure you, by the end of this fiasco, you'll have the Crocodile's life."

Killian's eyes never waiver from hers, but his voice becomes gruff.

"So you keep telling me."

"You made the right decision coming to me, Captain. _I _can get you what you want," she tells him sweetly. Still, he does not drop her gaze and finally she sees it. The indignation aimed at her, like a dozen knives hidden in his eyes, poised beneath a deceptively calm ocean of blue, ready to slice her skin at a moment's notice. His jaw is hard and he is no longer touching his hook in an idle pattern.

"But at what cost?" he inquires lowly, focused entirely on her.

She steps back, clasping her hands in front of her in a demure gesture.

"I beg your pardon?"

"All due respect, your highness," Killian spits, taking a step forward, "but why did you take my memories in the first place?"

The Snow Queen's glare is murderous in a heartbeat, reminding him that the woman is temperamental on a good day, "Why do you _care_?"

Apparently, he does not intend to dance with fire tonight because his jaw unlocks and his shoulders rise and fall in a tactful shrug. He steps away, milling around the open space while she watches him.

"I don't. I'm just curious," he excuses himself.

A long pause follows where she concocts a suitable response. Eventually she does, and she delivers it in a voice reminiscent of a snake, slithering through the air on strange, drawn out sounds.

"I needed an ally. You'd forgotten your purpose. I helped you remember it." Each sentence is punctuated by a step, the sorceress indolently trailing the path taken by the pirate. However, he walks with his back to her so she cannot gage his facial expression and match it with an emotion.

"I seemed fairly content with my life's purpose before you altered everything," he responds, attempting a tone of inconsequence.

But she can feel the resentment resonating within the words, and bites back, "You were weak."

Killian stops walking, his fists are clenched by his side and his voice is gravelly with ire, "You didn't tell me everything."

"Say again?"

"You didn't tell me the Swan girl and I were," he pauses, searching for the right words and failing when he gestures blindly with his good hand, "whatever it is we were."

The Snow Queen's face is devoid of mirth when she smiles at the back of his head, "I didn't think it mattered."

"Well, it does," he snaps.

"And why is that, Captain?"

He sighs heavily; an exhale that sounds like a leaden weight has been dropped upon his shoulders. She observes him as he brings his good arm up and, though she cannot see it, he is surely rubbing his scrunched eyes with calloused fingers, "I deserve to know if I had prior relations to these people –especially if I was…" his voice drifts off and a long pause follows where she continues to approach him from behind, stopping only when he eventually grinds out between clenched teeth, "…_intimately_ _involved_ with them."

The unencumbered laugh that bubbles up and out of her chest sends a waft of white smoke billowing into the air and the Snow Queen does not bother to attempt stifling herself. Instead, she presses a delicate hand to her neck and shakes her head derisively, eyeing the black mane of hair since she does not possess the effort to make him face her. The fact that he stiffens when she chortles is enough indication as to how he feels.

"Oh, you were _more_ than involved with her," she tells him slyly, inwardly mulling over the blonde imbecile's inability to shield her weaknesses. How could she _not _have realised that her boyfriend would be the first order of business? If she really believed the sorceress above such malevolence, she will have learnt her lesson by now and learnt it well.

If there is one thing the Snow Queen cannot tolerate, it is pure imprudence.

Cocking an eyebrow, she picks at her nails, "I suppose I did you a favour with that one."

Killian's face appears over his left shoulder and, while he has turned his torso just slightly to accommodate the stance, he isn't looking at her. His eyebrows are drawn tight.

"I beg your pardon?"

The Snow Queen's glassy features twist into a haughty smirk, and she crows disdainfully, "She's a broken toy, Captain."

Finally, he turns to face her. There is a minute flicker of outrage, and she catches the emotion before he can hide it carefully behind a meek display of annoyance. Killian takes a deliberate step forward, his fist clasped in a tight ball. With startling blue eyes, he maintains her gaze and the corners of his lips twitch threateningly, "People aren't _toys_, your majesty."

She watches him as an elder would a toddler, with raised eyebrows and a tangible air of condescension. If he is trying to intimidate her, he has clearly not spent enough time around her; like a dog, he must be reminded of his place, compelled to obey her every whim. Luckily, she chose an especially secure location for the anchor of her enchantments over him – exploiting the parasitic frost she has infected him with is far too simple a task.

Before he reaches her, she uses her magic to vanish and appear directly in front of him – so abruptly that he is mid-step and their chests brush. He instantly backs away to put space between them. It doesn't injure her self-worth in the slightest to have him physically recoil from her proximity. It _empowers _her.

The Snow Queen maintains a cool exterior, a deceptively gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Agree to disagree – but are you going to tell me you honestly don't agree that she was merely a trifle? Anything else would be disrespectful to your dear Milah, wouldn't it?"

He flinches and drops her gaze, eyes darkening to a reassuring degree. Satisfied that he will not test her patience again, she lets him mull over the surely traitorous emotions flooding his brain. Hopefully, the reminder of his dishonoured dead lover will reinforce what she needs him to think, feel, and believe in the dark, infernal fissures of his soul: that he does not love Emma Swan, that he never truly did, and that he never truly will.

So long as she can manage that, she may yet secure her victory.

Swaying closer to the pirate, the Snow Queen grips his chin to force his face back towards hers, "You're not discontent with my gift, are you?" she asks pleasantly, eyes widening in a poor attempt at innocence, "Because _I_ don't need_ you_. I'm acting of my own volition to help you." Altruism isn't a naturally inherited trait for her yet the lie flows easily – she scrutinises Killian's closed off expression.

A beat of silence follows, and she waits for his response.

Finally, he smiles and lifts his head with a wicked smirk. Her answering grin is inanely smug.

"Aye," he nods, "I apologise, your majesty. What is our course of action from here on out?"

The wind rustles lightly around them, her power surging in rhythm with her arrogance, "I thought you'd never ask." She gestures for him to follow and they forge a path through the trees for a long while until, eventually, they reach a small wooden shack. Dilapidated as it is, it bears an air of foreboding that sees Killian visibly shuddering beside her. Using her magic to wrench open the door, revelling in the creaking protest of the wood that screeches in the calm night air, she tilts her head to study the slim figure cowering in the corner.

"Elsa, my dear, how _are_ you this evening?"

So consumed with the pale woman crouched in on herself, she doesn't see the expression of consternation crunching Killian's forehead – nor had she noticed the way he had scratched nearly imperceptible marks in the trees as they walked.

* * *

**Pretty please with pumpkins on top - review?**


	4. Part Three: Blindsided

**I swear I am not uploading these to rain on your parades on purpose. It is pure coincidence that this fic always seems to update in the wake of fluffy episodes. I swear. (On anther note: _holy hot damn that episode_) **

**_Warning_: the f-bomb is dropped a bit in the last parts of this chapter (*yes there is an intense confrontation scene*)**

* * *

**Part Three: Blindsided**

You would think that, considering the anarchy currently gripping the coastal town of Storybrooke, the residents might try to make her job easier. But that is simply not the case – a fact she learns one evening, sorting through the seemingly endless pile of domestic complaints and police reports that have been filed in the past month. Heaving a sigh, she blinks several times as she reads, writes, and drinks her stale coffee, repeating the tedious process with unmatched precision. She has had enough time now (hours) to perfect it. With a jaw cracking yawn, Emma leans back to stretch, throwing her arms out wide when her eye catches on movement by the entrance.

In a surprisingly fluid series of actions, the blonde has her gun out and aimed at the door as it is cracked tentatively open. She is prepared for anything (has become accustomed to surprises simply by living in this town), yet it still steals every last breath from her lungs when her eyes land on Killian. _Done with him, my ass_ a voice taunts in the back of her mind.

Suddenly, it's as though someone is sitting on her chest but she doesn't lower the gun, narrowing her eyes as she demands, "What are you doing here?"

He raises his arms in a placating gesture, taking a slow step further into the office, "Wait, Swan. Before you shoot me, hear me out." But she's past exhausted, having crossed that line a long time ago so it's a mere speck of a realisation in the distance. Emma shakes her head, holding the gun a little higher as she assesses him and the unthreatening stance he has adopted.

Shaking her head, she lets her arms drop and places the firearm on her desk, moving to take her seat again as she bites back, "I'm not in the mood, Hook. Get out."

She's taken to addressing him by his moniker again (one step forward, one hundred steps back). She tells herself the namesake doesn't taste like bile on her tongue. As she waits for him to leave, she busies herself with re-organising the random assortment of legal paperwork masking the desk from view.

His shuffling is audible in the quiet office and he sighs. In her head, she imagines him lowering his arms and dropping his gaze to the floor since she won't actually look up at him.

"As you wish."

Emma stiffens; memories flood her brain and she desperately wants to shove them away because they don't matter anymore. But the way he says it, his voice curling around the words in such a familiar way; it bypasses every single wall she has resurrected since this debacle began.

_"Don't follow me, go get some more firewood."_

_"As you wish."_

Her fists clench.

_"Let's get out of here."_

_"As you wish, my lady."_

She chews her lips, the paper stack a blind mess of black scribble. David's words ring in her head.

_"You can't give up on him_."

Goddamn it._ God-fucking-damn it._

Before he can fully disappear out the door, she spins on her heel.

"What do you want?"

Killian looks over his shoulder at first, watching her warily before moving around to face her and walking forward so only a few feet separate them. The door shuts behind him with a click of finality and she tries not to let the air stifle her – the room feels small with him in it only a short distance from her. But that's how it has always been.

He scratches the spot behind his ear in a mannerism that is so undeniably _him, _she almost asks if his memories have returned. "I came to… apologise, I think…" his confusion at the semi-sincere sentiment befuddles her just as much as it appears to puzzle him. But that is something to be dwelled on later when she has Belle and Gold to satisfy her queries. He swallows and continues, "…and inform you that my allegiance with The Snow Queen has finally expired."

The last sentence is a rushed admission and Emma cocks an eyebrow in bitter speculation.

"I was under the impression it had passed its used-by-date after you agreed not to go after Gold until this was over?"

His expression is guarded, his stance defensive when he retorts, "I never said that –"

"You certainly alluded to it," she counters sharply, studying his face so that when guilt glitters in his face for a fleeting moment, her throat constricts. Again, he swallows (she can't know that he is subduing the natural sourness that collects there whenever he is forced to confront an emotion other than rage).

"I am not in league with her any longer though," he tells her firmly, "_Permanently_."

And while anger has certainly made a temporary residence in her soul at having been so grievously lied to (_for weeks_, an acidic voice reminds her), she knows he is trying. She's seen the taut contortion of his features before, is familiar with the development it denotes. He wore this same expression when he chose to take them to Neverland; when he relayed the news of Neal's survival; when he revealed his secret in the echoing stillness of those caves.

Again, her father's voice implores her.

So, as much as she yearns to voice the thousands of curses and creative insults spinning like yarn in her head, she restrains herself. She cannot, however, let him see that – broaching his revelation with a far less hostile response. Emma shrugs, schooling her features into an expression of apathy, "Great. You had an epiphany and I'm happy for you but that doesn't explain what you're doing here or why you're telling me this."

"I know where she's keeping Elsa."

He holds her gaze evenly and her jaw tightens.

"And how do I know this isn't just a set up?"

"You tell me; am I lying?" he entreats, eyes wide and genuine and the nostalgia has an increasingly heavy stronghold on her heart. It isn't the first time he has asked her that, prompted her to use her self-designated super-power. Apparently, she notes dryly, history always has a way of repeating itself (or so she can only hope in the depths of her being).

Emma stares for a second, sizing him up; but he is telling the truth. She continues to scrutinize him anyway, because she is well past the naivety it would take to simply accept his admission of guilt and travel, gung-ho, wherever he leads. This is not Neverland and he is not the same man that risked his safety for her son.

"No… you're not lying," she says, "but that doesn't mean you're telling the truth either."

He sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead roughly with his thumb and forefinger and it is only then that she notices the dark circles under his eyes. Whether his exhaustion spawns from a lack of sleep or something infinitely more complex is rooted entirely in a place she can no longer reach in him (that damn ache returns on the troubling thought). His eyes are scrunched closed and his words come through grit teeth, "Look, I'll tell you everything I know and you can do with the knowledge what you will."

Killian opens his eyes and catches her gaze, intensity crackling between them in a primal dance as old as time, "You don't have to like me, Emma, you just have to listen."

She wants to believe him, so much so that she doesn't trust herself. She regards him narrowly, "Why would you even want to help us?" She takes a step forward and folds her arms across her chest, sharply adding, "You know I'm not going to let you kill Gold."

"Does it matter why I'm doing this?"

His frustration clips the end of his words, each syllable a jagged spike on his tongue. But Emma is resolute, staring him down, "Yes."

There is a long moment where he stares at her, an unfathomable mixture of befuddlement and admiration swirling in his vibrant gaze. It's oddly comforting to have him look at her with something familiar; even if she hasn't seen such begrudging respect since their venture up the beanstalk. Since then, his approbation had always been plainly obvious, lathered across delighted praises so often she'd foolishly conditioned herself to take it for granted.

Should the day ever come where he is once again forthcoming with affection, she will not make that same mistake twice.

Killian shrugs, but his face doesn't change and his eyes are still locked on hers.

"Maybe I'm doing this to spite her."

"Maybe," Emma shakes her head, scrutinising him, "but that's not it."

This time, the silence bears a weight that physically drags on her. Neither one move as the stillness stretches out, filling up the room with a litany of words left unspoken. That same tension, the one that saturates the air like a fuel waiting to be kindled, begins to crackle so gooseflesh erupts across her skin.

Eventually, this will end; this dancing around each other and skirting the bottomless pit of unresolved issues between the two of them. But today is not that day and he drops her gaze, settling instead for the safe option: staring over her shoulder.

"…My reasons are my own, do you want my help or not?"

Faced with the daunting decision of whether or not to trust him, she finds her heart has picked up its pace. It beats as though it would erupt from her chest and escape the room. A voice in her mind, probably the incarnation of reason, reprimands her for even considering the notion, taunting her with the past weeks, reminding her that this man just _admitted_ to betraying them.

But her heart drowns it out, drumming a steady beat; reminding her which of the two (head or heart) she should truly follow. She will likely regret this.

Emma takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain some composure.

"Start talking."

8888

By the time he finishes, they are no longer standing in the middle of the station. Instead, he is perched on the edge of her desk as she leans against the opposite wall, eyes intent on his every movement. His voice drifts off and he watches her warily. The wealth of information settles over her slowly, seeping into her brain and fermenting there for a long minute.

The Snow Queen's plan, Elsa's involvement, _her _part – and, more importantly, _his_ part.

Quiet rage simmers within her; who it is directed at, she is not entirely sure just yet.

"You were going to put Henry in danger."

To his credit, he does appear at least marginally ashamed of that as he nods, "Aye." Unfortunately for them both, it doesn't end there, and Emma bristles at the simple admission. Especially when it is the first of many.

"And my parents."

"Aye."

"And –"

"Let's keep this succinct, I was going to put _everyone_ in danger for my revenge," he interrupts sharply, frowning at the ground as he kicks the linoleum floor self-consciously. Emma stands, desperately attempting to quell the fury winding beneath her skin and coiling around her bones. It is the Snow Queen who is to blame, and she reminds herself of that on replay as she slowly approaches him.

Restraint was a trait Emma had never truly embodied.

Her face is unreadable and she waits until he looks up to throw her fist into his face. The desk skids slightly as he lands against it, and he grabs his chin instantly. Unlike the last time, however, he does not appear indignant in the slightest when he meets her cool gaze again. Instead, there is a begrudging acceptance laced into the way he cradles the bruise appearing on his jaw with his good hand.

She _did _tell him she would punch him again if he pulled a stint like this.

Physicalizing her anger has a strangely therapeutic effect and, although the broiling rage for the Snow Queen's dire designs still lingers over her head like a dark cloud, Emma's discord with Killian seems subdued for the time being. Withdrawing her hand, she moves around her desk to retrieve a first aid kit.

"I probably deserved that," he mutters, rubbing the sore spot and watching her carefully as she returns to stand beside him. They do not speak as she pulls out an ice pack, cracks it, and places it against his jaw. He merely winces and lets her apply the pouch, all the while trailing her movements with curious eyes. She avoids looking anywhere near his penetrating gaze, focusing on her task, drinking in the quiet moment while she still can.

Electricity shoots through her veins when he touches her wrist, nudging her hand away from the ice pack so he can replace it with his. Her skin brushes his as she lets her hand drop, tingling in the wake of his contact. So she shoves her hands in her pockets and shuffles back, wisely putting some space between them.

"So what's the plan now?" Killian asks.

Emma shrugs – it's just another mission, another day in the life of the saviour.

"Save Elsa."

8888

Finding the goldilocks trail Killian left is quite simple, his scratches imperceptible to the untrained eye – but to those searching, they are glaringly obvious. With her father and her pirate in tow, they navigate the route prescribed by the markings in the thick tree trunks that tower over them. When they find the decrepit shoebox, nearly shrouded by overgrown bushes, Emma wastes no time in jogging forwards.

Distantly, she is aware of her companion's protests, their synchronised hissing falling upon deaf ears as her focus narrows down to the first friend she's had in a very long time. Killian had been her friend, but that was different (for one, she has never wanted to drag Elsa aside and pretty much devour her face) (yeah, _definitely _different).

She draws her gun as she moves forward, crossing by the window to check the room's interior – but it is too dark to see anything. It could be a trap, she knows that. But she also knows there's no way to find out without entering the shack. Emma reaches for the handle, only for a silver hook to snag her wrist and yank it away sharply.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Killian growls, David not far behind him looking similarly unpleased.

Her face deadpans and she rolls her eyes, nodding to the door exaggeratedly, "Going in."

"And if the Snow Queen is lying in wait for you?"

"How is that possible if she doesn't know you've changed your allegiance?" she counters.

Baring his teeth, he leans forward, "She _doesn't_ know but you might want to start acting with a tad more forethought if you're going to survive the beady-eyed wretch." For not the first time, she is tempted to ask him to elucidate: explain why he even gives a damn that she outlasts the freaking dairy queen. But, alas, her ability to stifle such automated rejoinders has improved immensely over the past weeks.

She maintains his gaze steadily, "Well we can't just sit out here – I've already checked the window and it's dark in there so either we turn around and make a plan, giving the Snow Queen time to figure out you've betrayed her, or we go in now and blindside her."

Killian breathes through his nose, shaking his head faintly – a glitter of unwilling approval appears and disappears in his eyes in the same heartbeat. He steps back, gesturing with a dramatic flourish to the handle and releasing her wrist, "By all means, then. _Blindside _her."

When her hand lands on the rusted knob, she hears him murmur absently to himself, "Should've been a bloody pirate." His words land warmly against her back, and her lips twitch against her will in spite of the pang it stirs deep in her chest. That's not the first time he's made that observation.

Gripping the handle, Emma jerks the wooden door open so roughly the hinges screech unpleasantly in a sound that grates on their ears. Lifting her gun, she scans the room and proceeds to drop her weapon when her eyes land on Elsa. The woman's meticulously decorated pale blue dress is torn and smudged with dirt and she cowers, frightened, in the corner of the room. When they enter, her unusually large eyes fix on them and recognition floods her features – but so does fear.

"Emma, he's with _her_!" Elsa crows, pointing behind the blonde to where Killian waits at the threshold.

Emma kneels in front of her, eyes soft and reassuring as she places a comforting hand on her pale, trembling shoulder, "I know – but he helped us find you. He changed his mind."

"You can't trust him," Elsa whispers, eyeing the man in question disdainfully.

Emma's eyes drop to the hard-packed ground, answering quietly "I know."

Sidling up to the other woman, she starts to lift her as David appears on her other side, dragging her up carefully, "Come on, let's get out of here."

8888

To say Anna is relieved when they carry Elsa through Granny's is a gross understatement. The strawberry blonde races towards her sister before they have fully crossed the threshold, a thousand separate sentences flowing out of her uninhibited at once in a waterfall of jumbled apologies and profuse expressions of gratitude. The two sisters embrace, David and Emma stepping back to allow them this moment. A second later, Kristoff joins them, wrapping both women in his strong arms.

It is a heartening sight, but one Emma cannot bear to behold with her own life a raging hot mess. She drops her head, studying the pattern of the diner's floor while she waits for the merriment to end. The calm lasts about a second (of course).

There's a gasp, a cry of surprise and by then Emma has snapped her head back in the direction of Elsa – just in time to see the pallid woman's eyes roll into the back of her skull as she collapses into Anna. Kristoff helps to pull her limp form up, but she is out cold and the entire diner stiffens at the unconscious queen.

The previous warmth of relief drains from the room in a matter of seconds, leaving it frigid with fear because something is very wrong with Elsa.

In a hastily acquired room at Granny's, she remains unconscious and, as Anna and Kristoff fawn over her, Regina levels Emma with a genuinely anxious glance. Her stomach churns when the Evil Queen tells her that their most recent foe has employed the urn's enchanted remains to cast a powerful neutralizing spell on Elsa. The parasitic curse eats away at her strength as well as her magic, disabling her as a threat and incapacitating her all at once. It seems the Snow Queen has a penchant for multitasking, Emma notes bitterly.

Before they can say any more, Belle calls and Emma's heart seizes when she asks to meet her at the apartment, departing on a revelation that has a brick sliding down through her ribs.

"I think I know what's wrong with Killian."

8888

Gathered in the apartment, they watch Belle enter the room with a stack of books balanced deftly in her hands. Gold follows behind, muttering under his breath something about her refusing his attempts to help – it prompts the woman to smirk over her shoulder at him before striding to the table to unload them. They slam against the table with a loud crack and everyone takes that as a sign to congregate around the dining space.

Their small group is made up of the usual: Emma, her parents, her son, Regina, Gold, and Belle. Killian's absence is obvious, or it is to Emma. The room feels too large without his larger-than-life presence. She should be used to it by now – but she's just _not._

Shaking off the way it hooks into her, she focuses her energy on Belle as she proceeds to spread the heavy books. When they are all spaced across the table, she picks up the first one.

"Okay, so I've been examining grimoires all week and I finally found something yesterday…" she flicks through the pages until she reaches one that has been earmarked. Opening it wide, she turns it around to face them; the page is covered in alien script and images of strange indescribable things. There is, however, one thing that Emma recognizes: a snowflake circled by a plethora of strange patterns.

"This," Belle says, pointing at the symbol in the top corner of the right page, "marks the section on ice magic and a female sorcerer who bore its origin centuries ago. It says in there that she was the first ever Snedronningen – or _Snow Queen_."

Everyone at the table nods and swallows, processing the information as Belle turns the thick yellowed page, "Now, this book didn't have anything on her spells of choice but it _did _say that, like all magic, hers is born from emotion. However, because she's kind of a sociopath, most of her emotion is rooted in manipulative tendencies. So, a lot of her spells are _manipulative _in nature which led me to look specifically at spell categories."

Moving the book to the side, she picks up another one – this one heavier but less tattered. Again, she flips through the decaying pages until she reaches one that has been tentatively earmarked. Displaying the contents to them, she pats the pages down flat and underlines a paragraph of cursive writing with a perfectly manicured finger.

"Where normal magic creates or destroys, manipulative magic _changes_. And then," Gold already has another, smaller book ready for her to use and she takes it from him with a coy smile, "by luck, I found this little guy hiding behind some books on weather-based magic spells – it's pretty much an encyclopaedia on different types of manipulative enchantments-"

"Can we just cut to the chase about what spell she used on Killian?"

Several pairs of eyes land on Emma, whose arms are folded impatiently (self-consciously) across her chest. Chewing her lip, she shrugs off the looks she is receiving and instead meets Belle's gaze. The young woman, unlike her glaring husband, simply appears sympathetic and nods, grabbing a small book and handing it to Emma directly. She taps the important page.

"You said there were glass shards in the spell she threw at you?" Belle reaffirms.

Emma nods stiffly, tracing the scribbled handwriting numbly with her eyes. Evidently, this is the response the brunette was expecting and she sighs, takes a deep breath and waits for the woman opposite her to look up again, waits for them all to look up, before she speaks in a heavy voice.

"I don't think those were ordinary glass shards. Danish folklore tells of a story where… well, there are shards of an enchanted mirror which reflects everything as ugly and distorted, the story's _called_ 'The Snow Queen.' And I… I think perhaps she infused a rather archetypal memory spell with those shards. And I think she managed to lodge one of those shards in his heart… and that's the anchor for the memory spell and..." Belle's gaze lands on Emma and she shifts sheepishly from foot to foot, as though this entire dilemma is her direct responsibility. It's one of the things about Belle that is both endearing and infuriating – that she feels personally linked to everyone's problems and, by extension, becomes easily invested in finding solutions.

Something hard is lodging itself under Emma's breastbone as she takes a moment to process before asking, "What does it mean for Killian?"

Belle frowns sadly at Emma, "It's why he's been so unresponsive to… well, to _you_. He hasn't just lost his memories – she's manipulated his heart. He's lost his ability to see the beauty in things, in _everything_."

The petite woman doesn't need to elucidate for it to dawn on Emma, for everything to click suddenly and painfully into place. It's why, when he awoke and met her for the second time, he found no joy in teasing her, sourced no amusement from throwing innuendos at her, was simply unmoved by her.

A memory charm wouldn't do that.

The person he's been over the past weeks is barely the pirate who tried to trick her in the Enchanted Forest, and he is _nothing _resembling the dilapidated man who seduced her as a wench when they travelled back in time. Both encounters occurred after Milah, before he'd sated his desire for revenge. Yet, in both encounters, he'd been enamoured by her.

She can still remember the utterly unaffected way in which he'd considered her at the hospital. Honestly, it probably hurt more than the distaste with which he'd beheld her after the confrontation with Gold – because at least that had been an emotion (granted, a skewed one). Since then, he'd changed; he was less cold, certainly, but he was still unfeeling at the most inconvenient times.

Coming back to herself, she notices quickly the way everyone's eyes are trained on her. Like a trigger, everything starts to crumble around her – the walls closing in, the neighbouring bodies pressing too closely to her shoulders, the air too thick, the lights too bright.

He hasn't just forgotten her; _he's forgotten how to find beauty._

_He's forgotten how to love._

She's jostling roughly away from the group before she's even decided to run, deaf to her family's shouts as she escapes the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time only to jump over the last five steps so she lands with a loud thump and her knees nearly buckle. Her eyes are burning as she tears away from the building, the sobs already building in her chest so she only makes it to the docks before she's tripping on her own feet. Leaning heavily on the railing, she holds the cool wood so tightly splinters become embedded in her palms.

The first sob wracks her body on a silent gasping intake of breath and Emma struggles to stay standing, keeling over and wrapping one arm around her midsection.

'_Idiot'_ the voices whisper in her head, the same voices that had been dormant for months. They tell her how stupid she is for letting this happen to herself again – for letting someone in when she _knows _the consequences, for even trying to find her own happy ending when her life's purpose was literally outlined from the beginning as bringing back everyone else's true north. The fault of this mortal blow falls squarely on her.

_She should have known better._

Which is why it hurts so much, and _god _does it hurt; culminating in an uncomfortable hollow feeling deep within her while her chest is squeezed by an invisible vice. Each undignified sound is quiet and, she thinks, at least she has that. Emma Swan has never been a loud crier – she learned to keep her emotions silent when she was in the foster system (nobody cares for whimpering children).

Too bad the lesson of emotional independence never stuck.

8888

The library is quiet and warm, the atmosphere just as welcoming as its owner who stands discreetly behind the front desk despite the immense lateness of the hour. She looks up when Emma enters, opening and closing the heavy door quickly enough that the frigid air only breaches the room for a moment. Before she can relay her sympathies or attempt to make pointless preamble, the blonde is walking towards her and posing the question that's festered in her mind from the moment this entire shit-storm began.

"How do I _fix _it?"

Belle chews her lip and walks around the reception counter but Emma does not have the patience nor the tolerance to endure any more pitiful looks or empty reassurances. Words and feelings were never her domain; she was a woman of action.

It was why Killian had made an unwilling home within her heart. Because he not only understood the hollowness and fragility of promises, but he was of the same mind when it came to the importance of _showing _someone you cared rather than _telling _them.

"_You traded your ship for me?"_

_"Aye"_

Emma closes her eyes tight enough that a kaleidoscope appears behind her eyelids, wrestling down the vivid memory and gritting her teeth to repeat the question before Belle can say a word.

"How do I get the shard out of him? How do I… how do I…" she doesn't have the adequate vocabulary to communicate what she needs to know how to do. For all that Killian was a man of action, his manipulation of the English language was something she'd always envied. He could weave a sentence like a talented tapestry artist, design soliloquies that encapsulated the world with greater detail than a painting, voice the truth in such a way that no one could deny it let alone reject it.

Her jaw locks thinking about it, thinking about _him, _so she forces herself to stop by digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands and focusing on the stinging pain that blossoms there.

"I haven't found anything specific yet but I had an idea when I came back from your apartment to look into the folklore – I mean, it's been fairly accurate so far." Belle's peculiar accent wraps around the words in such a way that they come out timid and Emma mentally chastises herself.

The other woman is trying to help and she's just entered the library making demands. Forcing herself to consider these facts, Emma pointedly relaxes her clenched fists, attempting to soften her features and half-succeeding when she feels the cleft between her brows lessen.

Belle chews her lip nervously, "I'm still researching but, in the story, the young boy whose heart and eyes are affected by the glass shards is saved by his best friend when she kisses him and then weeps over him." She pauses and studies Emma, visibly weighing up whether she wants to impart the final key to this puzzle. Her expression is reminiscent of those goodhearted people in videos who are cautious to approach startled wildlife and it causes weights to pile up in the blonde's stomach.

She waits patiently and eventually Belle speaks.

"In essence… this little boy was saved by her love... True Love," she hurries to move on, rambling and speaking as though her new words might paint over the picture of a solution she's just depicted, "_That_ and her tears melted the shards but – I mean, it's only a story so it mightn't be too accurate –"

"Technically, in this world, _you're_ allstories," Emma says numbly, gaze fixated somewhere on the monochrome tiling, the truth dawning on her like the sunrise of a day she knows will leave her ruined. True Love can save him – the only problem, of course, being that both parties must be emotionally invested.

And God knows Killian Jones does not love her anymore.

8888

The docks are quiet, the only noise coming from the gentle lapping of the ocean as it attempts to crawl up the wooden supports. A cool breeze sweeps through the open space, ruffling his hair and catching on the thin fabric of his shirt so it moulds to his chest. Seated on a wooden bench, he studies the horizon.

The urge to commandeer one of these poor excuses for a vessel is near overwhelming. His need to be on the sea, with a deck beneath his feet and sails over his head, swaying in time with the tantalising beat of the ocean's wild heart, is rooted in his soul. The sea is an integral part of who he is, anchored deep, woven into the very marrow of his bones.

And yet, for all that he wants to leave this wretched town and every confusing iota of his forgotten life, he cannot bring himself to the act. His legs lock every time he approaches a boat, his heart stuttering in his chest every time he thinks about sailing off into the distance until Storybrooke has disappeared and the open ocean crowds him on every side. For all that he yearns to escape the torment that this place presents, there is something keeping him here.

Clenching his lone fist, he focuses on the feelings burgeoning in his chest.

It is as though something is trying desperately to escape, a locked box rattling between his ribs. But the key is unreachable and the decipher is unreadable and so he sits at the docks, tearing himself apart from the inside out, wishing he knew… wishing he knew what he was.

Because Killian Jones doesn't know who he is, let alone what he wants anymore.

A broken voice echoes in his mind, "_I probably know you better than you know yourself – and that's what makes this all so much worse; that you don't remember who you are_…"

His lips twitch – Emma Swan is an enigma in her own right.

The sudden onset of warmth at her name is fleeting and, for the umpteenth time, he growls to himself. Why can't he feel anything other than black on the colour scale of emotions? Why does he only ever feel for _her _in the first place? Why does he still care what happens to her when he doesn't even bloody well remember meeting her for the first time? How is he supposed to explain the sickness that claims him whenever she cries if he cannot ever recall having felt so deeply as to sacrifice the only home he ever had; his ship?

He should just leave, he knows it. Now that he is no longer aligned with the Snow Queen, every minute he spends in this miserable little settlement is a minute spent with a guillotine hovering above his neck. Suffice it to say, he knows betraying the Snow Queen will cost him dearly – he knew it the moment he stepped into the harsh light of the Sheriff's station. Regret, however, is yet to claim him over that particular decision.

He doesn't know why he isn't concerned about his choice to stick his neck out, or why he made it in the first place. There was literally _nothing _to gain from aiding Emma and her family but he did it anyway. A cold voice slithers wetly around his heart, whispering '_the Snow Queen lied to you – it has nothing to do with Emma_.' But that's not the reason he did it and claiming that would only be lying to himself.

Frustration boils up in him and Killian stands abruptly, striding towards a moored boat with the intention to pilfer it and vanish into the sunset.

But that same pesky tether jerks him back and, with a curse, he turns and stalks away from the vessels bobbing on the choppy waves. He doesn't stop when he reaches the bench that has been his lodging for the past weeks (he's slept in far worse places for far longer durations).

Instead, he keeps walking with one destination in mind.

8888

Huddled beneath a swath of blankets on her couch, Emma lets herself do something she's refrained from for weeks: wallow. She lets herself cry, display every sign of weakness that's been plaguing her and just waiting to detonate. It only took finding out that the shard of glass was essentially irremovable for her to crack – and crack she does. There is a wine bottle on the coffee table which has been half-demolished and she's pretty certain that she will never be able to remove the mascara stains on these pillows, but she's relatively calm.

Her breath comes in stuttered hiccups now, and she just stares at the blank monitor of the television. The disillusionment is heavy in the room, but Emma cannot disentangle herself from its greedy hold.

Mercifully; the Snow Queen is yet to stage another attack, Elsa is in the more-than-capable hands of her sister, Henry is staying with Regina, and her parents are at a 'Mayor's Meeting' or something of the like so she needn't worry about being interrupted.

Or so she thinks.

"Swan?"

_Of-fucking-course he would turn up._

The front door creaks open and she curses, jumping up from the couch and scrubbing roughly at her bloodshot eyes. She really should have locked the door – but he should also really learn to knock. Facing away from him, Emma moves quickly and quietly to the kitchen as he enters, wincing when her voice comes out uneven, "I'm not in the mood, Hook. Can you just leave me alone?"

There's a pause.

"What's wrong?"

The almost indiscernible underlining of concern in his tone drags sharp nails across her still tender wounds, drawing a bark of harsh laughter from her lips before she can restrain it. She tilts her head over her shoulder towards him ever so slightly, her hair shrouding her blotched face from view.

"Why do you care?"

Silence answers her and she is reminded with stunning clarity why she was just drowning herself in cheap wine and fluffy blankets. A deranged laugh bubbles up out of her painfully constricted chest.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot – you don't care about _anything._"

This time when he doesn't reply, she thinks he may have left without closing the door. Her shoulders relax and she bites down on her lip to stop its trembling. However, that thought evaporates when she hears his voice directly behind her – gruff and frustrated and unsure – so she stiffens and clenches the edge of the kitchen counter tight enough that the skin of her knuckles blooms white.

"I need answers," he says.

Emma snorts, whirring to face him before she can fully contemplate the consequences, "And I don't give two shits."

His face contorts for a split second, readying to retort, but he never does.

She hates that she must look broken in his eyes, hates that he probably doesn't care, hates everything about this. Her face feels swollen with tears she hasn't even shed yet, chest aching the way it always does whenever she's alone with him: as though there is glass in _her _chest and it's slowly creeping into the tender flesh of her heart with every glance he spares in her direction.

As his crystalline eyes scan her face, absorbing the way she looks utterly _wrecked_, the first inklings of sincere apprehension form in his features. The change is subtle, but it's there, and his eyebrows fuse together as he scrutinises her.

"What's wrong?" he asks again, firmer this time.

Emma rolls her eyes and tries to move away, "Nothing."

But he thrusts his arm out to stop her so she is trapped in his presence, staring into the face of the same person responsible for the never-ending fucking _ache _in her chest. His good hand grips her chin and he forces her to look up at him when he says (with a gentler cadence than he has in weeks), "Now who's the liar?"

It _should _make hope blossom brightly within her to know that he cares (even if it's only a little bit), it _should _soften her, it _should _make her more pliable to see him emotionally invested for the first time in what feels like forever. It _should _do a lot of things to her, but his touch stings and his eyes burn and her chest _aches._

She jerks away from him, irrational anger boiling away at her insides as she manages to duck under his arm, "Just let me be alone, _please._" She only stops walking when she reaches the table, gripping the back of one of the chairs and waiting for him to leave. But he doesn't, and it's like pouring gasoline on an already raging inferno.

Emma turns to where he still stands, cemented in place.

"Get out."

Killian frowns at her, and she stalks forward so she stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, fingers taut around its edge, "_Get the fuck out_!"

He flinches before he can fully mask his reaction, walking around her and towards the door without another word. Again, the door doesn't click and she only needs to glance over her shoulder to see that he's stopped at the threshold, held suspended by some unknown force. She waits for him to just leave.

Instead, he turns around to face her.

(How ironic that even now he won't just leave.)

(He never leaves.)

(He always _stays_.)

Bracing herself on the kitchen counter, knuckles cramping from the strain, Emma can almost convince herself that she despises him. In a way, she does; she loathes what he's done to her without ever having tried.

For some unfathomable reason, that's what makes it worse. Losing his memories of her wasn't his choice, nor was the manipulation of his heart and mind and soul. The Snow Queen inflicted this on him and she did it because she knew it would cause far more damage than outright killing him. So Emma knows, without a doubt, that had Killian ever been given the choice he would never have made a decision that gave her pain.

It's taken this long for her to admit but now she knows for sure that he would have gone to extraordinary lengths for her happiness. He would have died for her.

More than that, she can only imagine how much he'd hate himself for ever hurting her. And it's all of that which breaks her – at least if he'd left, she could blame him. If he'd deliberately wounded her it would be a simple matter of reconstructing the walls around her heart and fortifying them from any more imprudent disclosures.

But no, she doesn't even get that. He never even tried and he broke her beyond repair.

"I hate you," she croaks, staring at the kitchen counter-top. A minute passes and she can hear him shuffling closer to her.

"That's a lie," is his hoarse response.

Emma swallows thickly and turns on the spot so that their eyes lock. And the thing is, he's right; it _is_ a lie. How he knows that, however, befuddles her because he shouldn't still be able to read her so well with a frozen heart. She's aggressively punching down the urge to cry, replacing it with the only emotion fervent enough to have a chance at substituting it: anger.

Her glare is weak, but she still finds the strength to grind out through clenched teeth, "I _want_ to hate you."

The look on his face when her words filter through the air is indescribable: partly because she can barely see it through the wetness in her eyes. But also because it's so at odds: fluctuating between despair and determination and anger and frustration and she swears she sees a flicker of guilt. She feels as brittle as chalk, especially when he drops her gaze to stare at the floor.

"Why don't you?" he asks quietly, visibly confounded by her, "I have done _nothing_ but cause you pain and yet you still can't find it in you to loathe me." His fist clenches and he searches for words, gesturing blindly as he gapes – at a loss. It is painfully reminiscent of the day that he lost his memories, when he pulled her into the alley and tried to vocalise his need for her to be safe. She bites down on her lip hard to keep it from trembling.

"In all my outrageously long life, or what I can remember of it, I have never once met a person so unwilling to accept what is right in front of them. But you _persist_."

Killian lifts his eyes from the floor so that they land on her face and she can feel her breathing becoming short under his scrutiny. She doesn't know how to reply – how can she reply when she can't even explain it to herself? For some reason, her silence breaks something in him.

She knows it is his patience, because it couldn't possibly be his heart.

"Why?" he repeats firmly, but she doesn't answer. She can see the exact moment that the anger bubbles up in tandem with his frustration, combining with the melting pot of emotions already swirling visibly in his mind. She's too preoccupied with trying to maintain control over this confrontation to notice how vulnerable he looks right now.

"_Why_?" he crows, taking a step towards her. She frowns when she hears a lining of desperation to his voice.

"I don't know!" she yells back, fists clenched by her sides.

At her words, he bursts forward, voice ripping through the apartment so she is faintly concerned with waking the neighbouring tenants. "_Don't lie to me_!"

Killian crowds her space, the action so familiar it hurts but she can't retreat because there's a kitchen counter behind her.

She doesn't even flinch, holding his stare relentlessly with a fierce scowl of her own.

The acid in her tone is palpable, "Why do you even care? I'm just another ignorant bitch to you – another witch – another – another stupid, corrupt thing! One you had _no_ qualms about taking advantage of to get what you wanted!"

"So why don't you hate me? Why do you _continue _to tolerate me, defend me, _care about me_?" he rebukes furiously and something in his tone acts like a match, setting fire to a fuse that's been lying dormant for weeks. It sparks and sizzles and everything inside her ignites. Both eyebrows ascend her forehead, voice rising until it cracks.

"Wait, are _you_ angry with _me_? You think I _enjoy _this clusterfuck of a situation? _You don't even remember me_! And _you're_ upset with _me_?"

But he is relentless.

"Do _you_ think _I_ enjoy having no sodding clue where I am or how I got here?"

"You sure as hell act like it doesn't affect you!"

He barks a mirthless laugh and takes a step back, running his hand through his hair, "Are you joking?" His attempt at sarcasm does nothing for the inferno raging to life in her veins (it feels like magic, tingling at her fingertips). Emma takes a step forward. Her eyes are narrowed as she stalks him with his shortcomings, livid voice ricocheting off the empty apartment walls.

"All you've done since coming back has revolved around your revenge and when it wasn't that, it was still about you – _always about you, you selfish bastard_!" he turns around in some thoughtless attempt to leave, so Emma naturally follows him, "_Back to square-fucking-one_!"

When he spins on his heel to face her, the movement is sudden enough that she jolts in shock. She is only standing a mere foot away from him but his words still come out in a bellow, a disconcerting mixture of frustration and resentment and, above all, grief.

"_Because that's the only thing I remember! _It's the only thing I have to grasp onto!"

There's a flash of pain in his eyes so potent it ripples through the air. But Emma's carrying enough of her own baggage without his so she settles on a reaction she's been slowly re-familiarising herself with; closing off. Schooling her features, she watches him bring his hand up, unclenching it so he can knead his forehead. He drops his hand after a second and drags his gaze up to hers again.

The imploring edge that lingers in his smooth lilt lets her believe that this is progress.

"Imagine feeling half-filled, like half of your soul has been vacuumed from your body and you don't know who you are anymore and the only things you can vividly remember are things that feel – they feel _wrong_, but it's all you can grasp onto! And that's just the _beginning_!" It's psychologically demanding for him, she can see it in every frown line that mars his forehead. Killian's voice rises and he shakes his head rapidly, stepping away, "I have feelings I don't bloody understand and reactions to things that don't make sense, I have – I have – I'm a stranger in my own goddamned body!"

Her eyes burn into him, thoughts jumping and dancing like a rock skipping along the surface of a pond. All things considered, she should turn on her heel and leave. It will do no use to keep picking at this festering sore but she is held by an invisible, indescribable force.

"And how do you think it feels to _watch that? _To be _powerless_ to help the one person who never gave up on you? To have to stand idly by and let the person you love lay waist to themselves_?"_

There is only silence in the wake of her impassioned words and Emma swears the world stops spinning, even if it is only for a second. A pregnant pause falls upon them as she tries to calm her rapidly disintegrating control, her breathing becoming shallow as a tear finally tracks a wet path down the slope of her cheek. His eyes trace the moisture, eyebrows furrowing as his jaw locks. It's almost as though the display of weakness on her part angers him – or at least that's all she can assume, she won't herself be convinced that he cares.

Before she can second guess herself, she continues, so softly it's almost inaudible. "But that's not even the worst part," she says and swallows, "the worst thing about all of this isn't just that you don't remember, or that you don't care –_ can't _care."

He frowns but she doesn't stop.

Emma's voice waivers, "The worst part is knowing this is my fault," she nods and steps away, choking on her own damn throat, "It's _my_ fault this happened to you. The Snow Queen did this because she knew it would hurt me. _I _put you in her crosshairs because –"

Before she cannot afford to expose herself without reserve, she bites off the end of her sentence and stares at the wooden floor. From her peripheral vision, she can see that his jaw is slack with shock. His quiet cadence is like sandpaper, chafing gently on the air as it escapes his mouth, "That's why I can't remember anything after meeting up with Cora… Because –"

"She wanted you to forget me. Specifically _me_. Meeting me, fighting with me, fighting _for_ me… loving me," Emma interrupts, finishing his sentence before taking a deep breath and pulling her gaze up to level with his, "It was the plan all along. To hurt _me_… and distract everyone in the process."

She laughs mirthlessly, "Multiple birds with one stone, as Gold so eloquently put it."

Vaguely she is aware of the way his breath hitches, "_What_?" But there's more that needs to be said and the filter she adopted young in life falls away. It falls alongside the walls he tore down, the walls he still continues to tear down even in his unkindly state. Nobody should have such control over a person – but he does. He probably always will. It's debilitating.

Without dropping his gaze, without stuttering, the words spill from her lips. A well-practiced hearse from a novel she's never read.

"Oddly poetic, don't you think? I was so, _so_ afraid of losing you – it was why I kept pushing you away. And you always told me – _showed_ me you weren't going anywhere if it was up to you – pulling the whole '_I'm a survivor'_ bullshit and, in the end, it wasn't up to you," she chuckles miserably, "I was _so _sure you would leave eventually – get sick of me, get sick of waiting, get sick of my brokenness, or _die_… but never… I _never_ thought about this."

A heavy pause follows.

Even Killian appears startled by his next mumbled words, "I'm sorry."

For the first time in a long time, he isn't lying when he apologizes this time.

But there's no room left for anything other than indifference when she shrugs, as though it doesn't affect her that he has done nothing but reject her and hurt her and lie to her since waking up. Exhaustion has already begun an enervating path through her muscles, weighing them down. It's been a long time since she's felt so emotionally drained.

Emma shakes her head numbly, "Don't be. You saved me so many times… it's any wonder it took this long for something like this to happen."

Killian turns around, rubbing his chin and pacing quietly away for about three steps before he stops and looks over his shoulder at her. The apartment is still and dark, the sun having disappeared down over the horizon long ago so the only light in the room comes from the moon outside. It casts an ethereal glow over everything, including his silhouette.

"How many times?"

His question is near-inaudible.

"What?"

"How many times did I save you?"

It's strange that he cares enough to want some quantifiable measure of her debt to him. She doesn't see the look in his eyes as he asks the question, though. The darkness obscures the pained concentration on his face.

Shaking her head, she looks around the room, "I lost track." A phantom of a smile crosses her face and disappears just as quickly when she thinks of each and every unwitting time he managed to ensure her survival (not just physically), "Too many times."

He faces away again so she can't see his expression. "I must have loved you."

His murmured words don't process at first, but when they do it knocks the air from her lungs. She blinks and she chokes, "You did."

Finally, Killian turns around to face her, catching her eye and holding it steadily as he speaks. "And you loved me?" She assumes it's supposed to be a statement, but it comes out as more of a question, an incredibly sceptical inquiry.

The more prudent course of action, of course, is to deny it.

Emma Swan has never been overtly wise.

"Yeah… I do."

Her use of present tense isn't missed by either of them, the breath backing up into her lungs as the admission sears itself into her memory. Bewilderment doesn't even begin to describe the way Killian's face has twisted in the minute that follows the innocuous words.

"_Why_?"

A watery smile tilts the corners of her lips and, despite the space separating them, she feels more exposed in that moment than she has since the very second he'd woken up in that sterile hospital room. There is an undeniable shallowness to the air they are breathing, the atmosphere between them thinning to such a degree that it is irrefutably intimate.

She never lets his gaze drop, "To be honest… I don't know."

Killian's eyes narrow marginally because of the untruth hidden within the statement but, wisely, he doesn't press it. For all that she cannot express it, Emma knows, with some clarity, why she loves him. Like a descent into madness, it flashes in her mind with excruciating detail.

She loves his determination, his resilience, his unobtrusive morality (although the latter has been sullied by the Snow Queen's doing – and if the Killian Jones she knows is anywhere in there, he'll hate himself for every line he's crossed). Neverland introduced her to his dual strength and vulnerability; showcasing his effortless dance down the line between arrogant façade and fragmented truth. It was in him that she was forced to confront a mirror image, which was terrifying and liberating all at once (or, it _had _been).

He takes a step closer, almost pleading, "_How_?"

The frown on her face deepens, "What do you mean?"

"How could you ever love someone like… _me_?"

As with everything about their relationship, it didn't occur to her suddenly or blindingly. In fact, it didn't truly dawn on her until that day in the hospital when his life was hanging precariously in the balance of science and magic.

Sitting in that waiting room, curled in on herself as she threaded her fingers in her hair and prayed to deities she had no belief in, Emma recognised the feeling purchased firmly on her soul. He crept up on her, wheedling his way past her defences and securing himself a place there before she'd ever noticed.

She sighs heavily, running a hand through her unkempt hair. It takes everything in her not to reach forward so she can smooth her knuckles along his jaw in an attempt to coax out the pain that resides in his tight, self-loathing expression.

"You aren't as much of a monster as you like to think you are. You never were – you were a shitty excuse for a villain to begin with," she snorts lightly to herself but he's still staring at her, arctic blue eyes sparkling with intensity. Pacing around the kitchen bench, she busies herself by placing her wine glass in the sink and restoring the alcohol to its rightful place in the cupboard – anything to avoid meeting his gaze. Yet the question still hangs in the air, unanswered by her vague deflection.

Contemplating, Emma recognises her inability to refuse him – it's only because, if there is one thing she still knows about him, it's his patience (although, some might call it stubbornness). She blows out a heavy breath and looks up at him.

"And you came back;" she answers simply, "you _always_ came back."

Killian's face is pensive and the tension in the room dissipates with the closing stages of their discussion. He is deep in thought, she can tell from the set of his shoulders and by the definite brand of consternation on his face. The minutes pass and not a word is exchanged between them, until finally he shakes his head lightly and shuffles back in the direction of the door.

"I'm sorry… I…" he glances up at her and starts turning towards the door, "I'll go."

Emma watches him leave. She doesn't follow him, but something is definitely different… in both of them.

8888

To her upmost surprise, when she approaches Regina she is not met with scorn but understanding. The woman asks no questions as she helps her, scouring her magic supplies and personal selection of magical manuscripts written in a litany of foreign dialects Emma cannot make heads or tails of. There are no barbed quips or knife-edged words exchanged – only speaking when it is necessary.

She has reached an unspoken agreement with her parents - they have divvied up the responsibilities. While they try to help Elsa, dually attempting to uncover the Snow Queen's whereabouts (now that they know her plan, they don't need to scrutinise her motive which was power from the very beginning), Emma has been given the time to look for a way to save Killian.

If anyone asks, she already has an excuse prepared: that without him, she is magically immobilized and so, until they restore him to the man she knows him to be, her efforts against the Snow Queen will be an exercise in futility. Which is true – but it's not the reason for the sudden wave of resolve.

There is a new fervour swimming in Emma's veins, a brand of determination she has not experienced the like of since Henry's near-death experience with the apple turnover. Perhaps it was catalysed by what happened in the apartment (his voice rings in her ears) – or perhaps she finally woke up to the realisation that she needed to work _harder. _Regardless of what it was, she knows one thing with every last shred of her tattered soul.

Killian Jones deserves better.

He deserves to feel everything on the blindingly painful spectrum of emotions – deserves more than this taciturn thing that has infected his soul in spite of the transitory displays of genuine sentiment that suggest otherwise.

He deserves to remember, and not just because she needs to him to remember her - but because the man who crossed realms and fought innumerable obstacles just for an orphan girl deserves to understand who he is and who he became. She saw firsthand the pain inflicted upon him by the memory charm.

Guilt swarms her, crowding in on the space left vacant by her pathetic desolation.

All this time, she's been fixated on befriending her own misery. It hadn't occurred to her that, for all the indifference and misplaced anger and cruelty, he was suffering in his own skin.

"_I'm a stranger in my own goddamned body_…"

Emma grits her teeth and forces herself to read every mildly decipherable book sent her way.

Because she will find a way to save him from himself or die trying – her family, as her father once said, _really _doesn't like giving up.

Broken, she may be. But she will never accept defeat (not when it comes to him).

8888

She does not let the disappointment overwhelm her as she traverses the main street, the evening sky her only companion on the long walk home from Regina's crypt. After days of searching, they are still empty handed and though her resolve has not yet waivered, she cannot deny that the air is especially cold tonight because of the failure that traces taunting lines down her spine.

Emma turns the corner, tucking her hands further into the warmth of her pockets as she approaches her apartment building. Her breath puffs out in front of her, white wisps that disappear into the inky night – reminding her of the unseasonable spike in temperature. She counts her steps.

Five steps: she realises just how much the atmosphere is unseasonably cold.

Six steps: alarm bells pierce the veil of chaotic buzz in her head.

Seven steps: she notices the hand-print of frost on the corner of the building.

Eight steps: chilling laughter rings in her ears.

Nine steps: she reaches for her gun.

She never makes the tenth step, blackness blotting out her vision so she collapses – losing consciousness before she ever hits the ground.

* * *

**I nom on your feels - review so I can have noms.**


	5. Part Four: The Emotional Pendulum

**FINALLY - this one took a little bit to get out but that's only because I felt like I needed to make sure that all of the descriptions of what they're feeling (Killian in particular) are understandable even though it's all quite complicated (goddamn Snow Queen amiright?) **

**Anyway, this one is important because there's a clue as to where we're headed in Part Five. And because there's quite a bit of development for our babies. Bon Appetit.**_  
_****

* * *

**Part Four: The Emotional Pendulum**

He doesn't happen upon them deliberately. In fact, he literally stumbles upon them, Mary Margaret's petite figure slamming into his chest as she dashes down the street with blind eyes. David follows behind her, his strong arms reaching to steady his wife when she jerks away from Killian, and he is greeted with a familiar shade of green drilling into his face.

The usually serene features of the royal woman contort and twist into anger, her eyes darkening as she launches herself forward.

"Where's Emma?"

And just like that, something heavy settles over Killian's lungs. Apprehension has already begun a measured path through his veins, and he frowns down at her – especially when she jolts herself out of David's attempts to restrain her. For a woman so small, she certainly knows how to exude intimidation when she crowds him, eye blazing.

He shakes his head, "What do you mean? Where is she?"

The heat dissipates from her face quickly, replaced by frustration, "You mean, you don't know where she took her?"

"Why would I know?" he glares, her underlying accusation prodding his sore spots – it is only overtaken by the realisation that Emma hasn't so much disappeared as been abducted, her choice of wording seeping into his bones. His eyes widen slightly and he searches her face, "Wait - did the Snow Queen take her?"

Mary Margaret blinks several times. She doesn't shrug off her husband's comforting hand on her shoulder this time, and Killian picks up on the note of well-hidden fear in the blonde man's voice when he murmurs to her, "We'll find her, it's okay." The gentle affection stirs the pit of worry slowly deepening within him and he waits for the woman to gather herself.

Calmly, she tells him, "We think she did – she never came home last night and there was a trail of ice near our apartment. We found Emma's phone on the ground where it started. We're about to meet with Regina and some of the others to see if we can find her before…" He doesn't have to ask to know that her throat chokes on the end of her sentence, the notion that the Snow Queen is hurting Emma enough to shoot something frantic through his own bloodstream. Again, the box in his chest rattles – more violently than before, he'll admit.

He doesn't spare a thought to the sudden onset of determination as he steps out of their path, "Then, by all means, lead the way."

Emma's parents eye him warily for a long moment, something akin to astonishment playing out across their features. He is reminded momentarily of his hostility for the past weeks and scratches behind his ear, waiting for them to move so he doesn't have to suffer under their scrutiny. Thankfully, time is of the essence and they simply cannot spare the hours needed to psychoanalyse his motives. They move quickly and without comment, reaching the Sheriff's station shortly thereafter.

Several of the townsfolk (the majority of whom he does not recognise or care for) are gathered outside the brick edifice, concern stamped across nearly every face. An unfamiliar brunette woman, who Mary Margaret addresses as 'Ruby,' steps forward instantly.

"I tried to trail her but her scent ends about a block away from your apartment," she laments apologetically. Mary Margaret's lips tilt sympathetically, and she pats her friend's shoulder lightly before she makes a beeline for Regina. David and Killian follow her without hesitation, the latter pointedly ignoring the residents gaping at his sudden and apparently unexpected appearance. Even Regina does a double-take when she sees him, disdain flickering once in her sharp eyes.

"What is _he_ doing here?" she asks Mary Margaret, "And how do we know he wasn't involved?"

The distrust is palpable in the air, and Killian grinds his teeth together, addressing the haughty woman directly, "I was under the impression Emma had told you about my change of heart but, evidently, your hearing must have been eroded by listening to the grating sound of your own bloody voice."

Regina pivots to face him, unruffled, "Oh trust me, Emma told me about it. If it weren't for her, I would have obliterated you where you stood after you risked Henry's life by siding with that woman."

"_Guys_," David chides harshly, stepping in between them. Killian doesn't drop the Evil Queen's gaze, dark brown clashing with ice blue. Eventually, she steps away and brushes some ebony hair from her face. Turning her attention to the others, Killian takes the chance to subdue the urge to bury his hook in the woman's neck – he's been shoving down his violent tendencies for days now (now, he has a reason to store the red emotion) (the Snow Queen will rue the day she decided to hurt Emma).

_Why do you care so much?_

Killian's eyebrows furrow, the coldness eating up his resolve where he stands. The confusing sentiments swirl around his chest, throwing him off-kilter so he has to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger to come back to himself. When he does, they are midway through their discussion and he pays swift attention.

"I've already tried a locater spell but, unsurprisingly, I got nothing. The Snow Queen must have used a buffer to impede any attempts to find Emma using magical methods –"

"How did she even get to her? Emma's not stupid and she's certainly not defenceless."

"I'd say she caught her off guard on her way home from my crypt. If she was unprepared, the Snow Queen would have had a rather large window of opportunity to take her without a fight."

"What time did she leave to come home?"

"About eleven – we decided to call it a day and she left –"

"What the bloody hell was she doing out alone that late – let alone with you?" Killian interjects angrily, glaring at Regina who narrows her eyes knowingly. She is about to answer when Mary Margaret shoots her a warning look, silently ordering her not to respond. It perplexes him to say the least and he directs his attention to the petite woman responsible for the held tongue. They aren't telling him something and it grills against his nerves like sandpaper.

Mary Margaret's voice is deceptively composed when she responds, "It doesn't matter what she was doing there – we just… Hook, where are you going?" He is already half-way to the door, his aggravation dismantling any attempts he might have made to work in tandem with these infuriating people. Spinning on his heel, he glowers at them all, daring them to stop him.

"I'm going to find her."

The congregation of people simply gape at him. David's face twitches imperceptibly, recognition and shock masking his concern for an iota of a second.

"_How_? There's no trace of her anywhere, we've got her phone and we don't know where the Snow Queen is," Leroy adds harshly, folding his arms across his stout chest in a reproachful gesture. But Killian simply continues his path towards the exit, a fire in his step and an inferno in his belly.

"I don't care. I'll find her."

8888

He heads straight for the forest that lines the town, navigating the thick underbrush with rough swipes of his hook. He focuses on the tedium the overgrown greenery provides, taking great care as he swings his arm back and forth to push forward, his destination already cemented in his mind. It helps him ignore the churning tempest of foreign feelings slicing their way through his entire being.

It distracts him from the fury coiling around his bones; because she shouldn't have bloody well been out so late with the Snow Queen's vendetta still very much in play and those imbeciles at the Sheriff's station were getting nowhere fast and the sorceress will pay dearly for trying to steal the only source of warmth from this infernal town.

It takes his mind off the frantic edge to his concern; because who knows what the Snow Queen is doing right now, or where Emma is, or why she has taken her? Her plan was to cripple the blonde first, using her family and friends (make her weak), not outright maim or murder her. That thought alone has him increasing his pace, the muscles in his arms and legs burning from the effort.

Mostly though, honing in on the monotony of his movements allows him to ignore the way the frost is struggling to swallow the newfound emotions. There is a whirlpool in his chest, but for once the sentiments do not instantly fall into its abyss. They match the monolithic strength of the cold, pushing back against its frigid grip so he feels everything with a muted fervency that nearly has him keeling over.

It's overwhelming, but it's also what is driving him forward.

There's a voice in his head that has him convinced that if he can just find Emma, these things that are crushing him will subside.

With one last well-aimed cut, he reaches the clearing the Snow Queen had previously designated as their rendezvous point. As with every other time he had arrived there, she is already standing in the centre of the small field, statuesque amongst the bleak edges of the forest.

Her white dress appears to melt into the same downy substance that coats the dead, leaf-strewn floor and she turns to face him, a haughty smirk fixed across imperial features.

"What did I tell you about love, Hook?" she tuts, faux disappointment crumpling her brow as she considers him derisively, "It's _weakness_ – which makes you both predictable."

He does not waste time with preamble, striding forward until he stands a short distance from her – he knows it would be imprudent to stage an attack on the woman with her attention solely on him.

"Where is she?"

If his stony demeanour affects her, it doesn't show. For all of his efforts to appear domineering, the woman simply examines her perfectly manicured nails, holding out one delicate hand and tilting her head. Her arctic eyes do not rise to his as she chides him, voice just on this side of tormenting, "You know, even after _everything_ you have put her through, she still can't let you go. You _really_ got under her skin, didn't you?"

The Snow Queen grins lecherously and finally snaps her gaze up to pierce his, "But then, I guess she got under yours too," her eyes narrow, and it's like a serpent shedding its skin when her voice thins to a needle point, "Why else would you betray me?"

Killian's fists clench and he _knew _he would suffer the consequences for throwing her allegiance back in her face. But he couldn't have foreseen that the woman would attack Emma – he hadn't even considered her a liability (now, with an infuriating mixture of emotions boiling up inside of him, he knows that was far from the truth).

"_What did you do_?" he hisses, struggling to maintain his composure when his companion merely laughs.

"Temporarily neutralised her - nothing terribly lethal," she assures him, leaning forward, a glint in her eye that has alarm bells ringing violently in his ears, "but that's not the problem, is it?" The way she says it, tongue curling around the words with lascivious glee, chewing down each vowel only to spit it back in his face, raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

Dread weighs on him already, and he doesn't even need to know the details to her new plan, the one which he will most definitely _not _be privy to.

His jaw locks with the effort it takes to keep his voice at least partially composed, "Where is she?"

The Snow Queen senses his hostility instantly and glides towards him, all dulcet tones when she falsely tells him, "Calm down, darling – I'll tell you." There's a pregnant pause and he waits for her to add with a nonchalant shrug, "It's just up to you who you save."

"I beg your pardon?"

The Snow Queen leers, starting a slow path around him, a predator circling its prey, "A choice: I'm giving you one – the girl or the town. It's _completely_ up to you." The glint of smug satisfaction shining in her pale blue eyes is cold and unappealing, driving splinters into his already fragile patience. Realisation is trickling uncomfortably down his ribs as he absorbs her words, drinking in everything they denote.

"You _bitch_."

"Name-calling is so childish, my dear," she quips, and he rotates to keep her in his line of sight. He is not so imprudent as to give her his back, unattended and unprotected.

Shaking his head, he glares at her, "Why are you making _me_ choose? I thought you eventually wanted Emma as an ally, not a casualty."

"I still do, but I'm quite good at adapting to my surroundings so I don't necessarily _need_ so much as _want _her... and you betrayed me and I'm awfully spiteful in matters of duplicity."

She cackles manically, sighing deeply before she tilts her head towards him, a smirk cast about her lips so they curl delightedly around her words, "If only you could remember, you would be _particularly_ sympathetic to that plight." It confuses him for a moment, but then Henry's voice swoops in, relaying a fantastical tale about a magic beanstalk, a sleeping giant and an act of unforeseen deceit (metal chains rattle unnervingly familiar in his ears).

Killian's face is still contorted with misunderstanding – her motives don't match her crimes. She wants to hurt him so…

"So why not punish _me_?" he verbalises the thought without hesitation and regrets it the very second the words tumble from his lips. Pulling to an abrupt halt, the Snow Queen pivots to face him directly, her eyes manic, voice rising an octave higher.

"Oh, but I am! Although you mightn't remember a shred of your history with that girl – in your head or your heart – the feelings are still there, buried and dormant under that cold façade you cling to so desperately," she chuckles to herself, "Although, _that_ may also be partially my doing – you have had a _great _deal of trouble feeling emotions even resembling happiness, haven't you?"

She _knows. _

_She only took his memories so how does she know?_

Really, it shouldn't surprise him so much that she is aware of his emotional impotency. After all, she is the sole cause of his amnesia – why wouldn't she also be the culprit to the cold encroaching on his heart whenever the barest hint of warmth creeps in? It still throws him off guard though, red lining his vision when he registers the taunting edge in her tone.

She is the reason for his affliction.

His teeth grind violently together, "What game is this?"

"No game, I could kill everyone but I'm feeling sentimental so I'll be lenient."

"I'm hesitant to believe that, especially since you're not notorious for your altruism."

She laughs at him, shaking her head admonishingly, "Oh, please, now you're just wasting valuable time to make your dashing rescue." A lump forms in his throat, the blood in his veins thrumming with a new brand of conviction. Her words ring in his ears, and he can almost hear _himself_ saying them – he squeezes his eyes shut momentarily to block out the way the phrase _"dashing rescue_" lingers, echoing around the walls of his skull before it slips through his fingers like fine sand.

"What?" he grits through his teeth, rubbing his temple in an attempt to alleviate the aching sensation that has slowly crawled up through his chest to claim the space behind his eyes.

"Emma is in a lovely little ship by the docks – too bad the ship she's in seems to be faulty. Last time I was there, it was sinking. Not to mention the water's a tad nippy at the moment, not that I mind it but she might."

And suddenly, he feels a sense of clarity – like _he _is the one who has been thrust into glacial water. Breaking his eyes open, he thinks about the image the Snow Queen's words depict. His mind's eye is overcome with images of Emma succumbing to the same sea he has called home for longer than he can remember.

He doesn't hesitate when he begins running from the clearing, calculating in his head how long it will take to reach the docks. But the Snow Queen appears in front of him, halting his path with a toe-curling grin. She tilts her head mockingly.

"Ah, ah, ah Captain – are you forgetting about the town?"

"What about it?" he growls.

"If you concentrate your efforts on her, you'll not be able to warn the town of my impending attack," she reminds him. And it should abhor him, strike some kind of guilt in him, that he is dooming the town but…

"I don't care."

The Snow Queen's eye glitter, her lips pulling further apart so her smile grows to something that resembles the baring of teeth, "_She_ will. She'll hate you."

Killian swallows the thickness in his throat, dodging around the woman as he answers again, "I don't care." With that, he runs. He all but flies through the trees, ignoring the chilling drop in temperature and especially the way her delighted cackle pierces his skin.

"Good luck Captain! You'll need it!"

8888

The world sways beneath her feet and, as Emma's eyes snap open, she remembers very quickly that she is not on land. That revelation is followed swiftly by the distant recognition that not only is she still seated, but she is still strapped down – intricate knots holding her limbs and joints to each crevice and corner of the hard, wooden chair.

Staring blindly into the darkness that smothers her, she tries for the umpteenth time to free herself. She strains against the ropes, hissing when the rough texture rubs against her already tender, chafed skin. Sighing, Emma drops limply against the chair and shivers - it's getting colder.

Or perhaps it's just her feet that are cold, they are stinging from the frost that bites her toes and gnaws the back of her ankles.

It is then and only then that she registers just _how _much colder her feet are than the rest of her body. As dread ploughs a relentless tunnel through her chest, Emma forces herself to peer down through the low light in the boat's cabin. Her heart stops.

Frigid water is swirling around her feet and, looking to her left, she sees that the Snow Queen's renovations to the vessel seem to finally have taken effect. The only indication that this is not a natural occurrence is the water's stillness – it doesn't rush into the brig with a deafening churning sound. No, it bleeds silently in, lapping gently at Emma's feet when she struggles again (more frantically this time because her feet _hurt _from the cold and it didn't hurt this much when she was dying at the ice wall with Elsa).

The overwhelming feelings of fear mix with her anger, and thinking about the icy grip on her lower calf now has the Snow Queen appearing firmly in her mind. She glares at the ground, gritting her teeth and making a fruitless attempt to tap into her reservoir of magic.

She knows it won't work – the Snow Queen told her so the first time she woke up.

Among other things.

_"Rise and shine, dear," a velvety voice whispers._

_The thick blanket of exhaustion lifts like a shroud; coherency slamming into her full force so she gasps for air as she wakes, eyes blown wide open, fingers gripping the edge of the chair like an anchor. Her gaze darts frantically around the unfamiliar room until, through the intrinsic lack of light, she makes out the distinct silhouette of a woman. Paired with the familiar voice, she knows who it is._

_And her memories return in a staggering flash of images: walking home, seeing the ice, blacking out._

_When the fury swells hot and quick through her blood, Emma moves to stand and feels her stomach lurch when she is unable to move. Staring down at herself, she growls – ropes are looped around seemingly every bend in her body, holding her steady and immobile against the chair._

_"And don't bother with your magic, Emma dearest – I've neutralised it," she explains sweetly, stepping forwards and swaying slightly. Not of her own accord, Emma realises, scanning her surroundings and the tilting floor beneath her feet: she is on a boat. But why?_

_"What the hell am I doing here? What do you want?" Emma spits, glaring viciously at the other woman when she finally comes to a stop a short distance from her._

_"I'm just settling a score. In this case, you are merely a pawn," she tells her, tilting her head to the side. Emma studies her pallid features, confusion marring her face in a fleeting expression. Then the Snow Queen is speaking again, and her throat constricts painfully tight when the situation clarifies in her mind – like melting frost on glass, the transparency slow but sure when she realises what is happening outside of this cold, tilting bubble she inhabits with the Snow Queen. _

_"The good captain betrayed me, as you no doubt know. This is my way of reminding him that duplicity has a price," she explains, "You see, I'm giving his already bruised conscience a bit of a work out. I'm going to give him a terribly vexing choice, one that will define what happens from here on out."_

_Trepidation settles low in her gut as Emma asks, "What choice?"_

_"I intend to stage a little skirmish on your beloved town. I've been patient enough and it seems I have the perfect opportunity waiting at my feet - with you and our Arendellian friend neutralised, I'll have little resistance. Your beloved family will fight – and they will die. Elsa will break, and so will you. That is all you need know of my plans for them." The Snow Queen walks slowly forward, the space between them diminishing with each step. The floorboards of the hull creak and groan against her weight, and Emma takes that as a bad sign as to this boat's structural integrity._

_The woman kneels in front of Emma, holding her gaze evenly with pale eyes, "So his choice, my dear, is whether he warns the town – perhaps gives them a chance to prepare, maybe save a few insignificant lives… or saves _you_."_

_Emma's eyes widen, but the Snow Queen is not finished, dragging a nail under her chin so she can tilt her head up towards her. She leans in close enough that Emma can feel the unappealing chill of her breath as it fans across her face._

_"He can do one or the other, but he cannot do both."_

_Flicking her finger back towards her, she drops Emma's chin – but it leaves a mark, the skin under her jaw raises red from where the woman's pointed nail caught. The Snow Queen stands and spins on her heel, calling gleefully over her shoulders as she disappears into the shadows, "I do hope he chooses correctly."_

Not for the first time, she beats away the panic that is gripping her. Her headspace is an indecipherable tangle of strings, a thick ball of emotional yarn lodging itself resolutely below her breastbone. On the one hand, she cannot fathom a world without this town let alone the people in it. They are integral to her, and the mere idea that her family might suffer – might _die_ – causes something disconcerting to ripple down to her back (it feels uncontrollable, feral and raw – the dark magic that winds its way through each vertebrae at the notion).

So she _wants_ him to choose them even if it means she will perish in a cold watery grave.

But a small, selfish fraction of her soul yearns for him to save her. And not purely because the idea of drowning makes her skin crawl and her heart pitch urgently against her ribs. But because it would mean that there is a small part of him that still cares; even if she has already resolved herself to redeem him regardless of his current disposition.

_There won't be any cause left if you're an orphan again_, the voice of reason dictates. It chides her for the foolish wish, aggressively reminding her that her life comes at the price of her family's imminent death and that is one exchange she cannot accept. Unfortunately, it isn't up to her.

If it was, she knows what she would choose. It's the same choice she would make every time: her family, her loved ones, her only sources of light in this incessantly cruel world. In that moment, she desperately wants Killian to warn them of the Snow Queen's impending attack. She hopes that he knows it is what she would want and prays to a thousand deities she doesn't even stock faith in that if he even has a scrap of compassion left in him, he will do that for her. He will warn them and, by extension, possibly save them.

Emma grips the chair as her body's natural response to the descending temperature begins to take effect. She shivers against the wooden frame of her seat, gritting her teeth harshly together as she tries to hold herself still. It is to no avail, and soon the soft sounds of the water are joined by the clacking of her teeth.

The water has reached just below her knees when she hears it.

Heavy footfalls sound directly above her head right before her heart comes to a stuttering halt in her chest. Stiffening, she listens to the person pace quickly over to where she assumes the hatch is at the end of the room she is in.

But the water is flooding faster now and by the time the light of day filters in through the open entrance, the gentle waves lap at her hips. Peering at the beam of sunlight, she watches with an undefinable feeling as a black silhouette drops into the room with a loud splash. The water ripples in his wake, reaching her in a rhythm that beats in time with her rapidly pumping heart.

When he turns around, Emma feels a bout of uncontainable fear. Names run through her head, names that belong to people who are now in danger because he's here and not there: Henry, David, Mary Margaret, Elsa, Anna, Ruby, Kristoff, Granny, Archie, _Henry, Henry, Henry._

Killian's eyes lock onto her shivering form and she swears she sees relief sag his features before his face cements with angry resolve and he begins wading through the waters towards her. As much as she wants to rejoice in his appearance, she cannot.

For one thing, Emma's waist is bearing the brunt of the ocean's icy caress now making it difficult to think about anything other than breathing properly.

For another thing, her family is in inconceivable danger. The Snow Queen is not merciful, even though she claims to be, and she will not spare them not when her endgame is Emma's destruction.

"What are y-you doing here?" she stammers, frowning up at him as he approaches. His movement through the rising waterline makes it churn and crawl further up her torso, licking her skin with icy tongues of water so she shivers uncontrollably. "You shouldn't-t-t be here! You c-can't be h-here!"

He doesn't answer.

His eyes flit to hers (they are unreadable in the low light) and he uses his hook to cut through the ropes at her wrists. She instantly rubs the skin with gently probing fingertips, hissing when the salt water stings like acid being poured directly into her muscle tissue. But the Snow Queen was thorough and he has to drop further into the water to snag his appendage through the restraints coiled around her waist.

"You're not supposed to be here," she repeats in a whisper, her mind racing with images of her son, her parents, her friends. She wants to be angry with him – but she simply cannot muster the energy for it. Not when she's so _cold_ and so _tired._

"I'm exactly where I'm needed," he tells her stoically.

His good hand holds her hip steady so he can tear through the ropes with a sudden jerk before ducking completely under the water. She can feel him searching for her ankles and has to tamper down the panic she feels when she notices the way the water now sits at her collarbones.

She doesn't realise her ankles are released until he rises from the water, soaking wet and obviously freezing. He blows out a hissing breath as she numbly tries to remove herself from the chair and fails miserably, struggling to make her paralysed muscles move. Annoyance briefly crosses his features and he drags her up unceremoniously, looping an arm around her waist as he casts her arm over his shoulders.

She reiterates the same frantic statement as he pulls her bodily through the frigid water, their limbs meeting heavy resistance with each slow step forward through the semi-submerged vessel. She maintains her grip on him but turns to face him, "My family needs you m-more… the Snow Queen t-told m-m-me about your choice – y-you need to save them."

They are directly under the hatch when he rotates to face her directly, his fringe hanging wetly over his forehead as he holds her gaze, eyes positively glittering with the sunlight streaming down over his damp features.

"I don't _have_ to do anything. The choice was mine for a reason, sweetheart. Not yours."

Her dumbfounded expression quickly turns into a muted glare, even as he helps her up out of the hull with disjointed movements. She lands on the deck with a wet slap, coughing and heaving at the effort but at least the sun is warmer than the water. The air attacks her skin as she waits for Killian, shivering violently at the exposure.

With a similar sound of skin smacking wetly against wood, he lands beside her.

"We need to w-w-warn them," she stutters, painstakingly pushing herself into a semi-reclining position, "We n-need to s-s-save them b-before she… b-before she…"

Finishing the sentence becomes impossible when there's a very sudden, very potent pain in the centre of her spine. It feels as though someone has struck her hard with something blunt, and she arches and gasps at the unanticipated pain that disappears almost as quickly as it appears. Beside her, Killian splutters momentarily before standing, his movements jerky enough to bely his own feelings of physical discomfort. He offers her a hand which she gratefully takes, holding her arms around her torso as they move as quickly as they can from the sinking vessel. It drops down below the waves soon after they set foot on the pier and Emma drops to her knees with exhaustion.

"I'm s-safe – now go h-h-help them… p-p-please Hook," she manages in between gasping breaths, staring up at him with a tangibly pleading tone. Ice blue eyes like bullets propel through her head and she repeats the supplication, her desperation thick smog that distorts the air, "P-please."

Eventually his eyes leave hers – but only because he cannot meet them as he lifts her limp figure into his arms bridal-style, a begrudging look on his face.

"We don't need to do anything," he says coldly. It is the last thing she hears before she gives in to the blackness lining her vision, despair already gripping her heart.

8888

Bodies litter the ground, glass and snow and _people. _

_Everywhere. _

Everywhere she looks_._

And she can smell the smoke, it rises from the ground like steam, clouding the air and pervading her skin, sinking into her pores so she coughs and splutters and heaves a sob as her eyes land on familiar face after familiar face. They line the street; clutter the road; send grief spiralling down her chest and into the core of every nerve.

Emma holds a horrified hand over her mouth as her gaze finally falls on one small body.

It sits propped against the brick wall of one of the broken buildings. His face is slack, his wide brown eyes open and unseeing. She runs to him, kneels at his side and places her palm against his face. Henry is covered in blood – and she screams for her son.

The world comes into focus in a split second as she jolts upwards, the mattress of her bed familiar and soft beneath her as she heaves and gasps and clutches the sheets. The scream is lodged in her throat, the emotions thick enough to choke her. Seconds turn into minutes as she sits in her bed, trying to calm her rapid breathing. As she does, she takes note of the quilts piled up on her small frame, weighing her down.

And everything comes rushing back; blacking out, the Snow Queen, the boat, Killian's _choice_.

She scrambles out of bed and runs towards her bedroom door, already preparing to tear out of the apartment in search of her family and friends (even if it is already a futile effort). Yanking the door open, Emma squints against the bright light of the living room, blinking rapidly as she strides forward and comes to a sudden halt.

Everyone in the apartment is looking at her: and the fact that there even _is _an 'everyone' makes her shoulders sag with relief. She almost wants to sob when she sees her parents and Henry (she also spots Killian in the corner of the room, leaning up against a banister, arms folded across his chest as he stares at the ground). Her son jumps up from the couch to run towards her, wrapping his wiry arms around her in a tight embrace. She returns the gesture with equal fervour, clutching at his small body and willing the grisly images of her nightmare to disappear.

"Mom, we were worried you were going to get pneumonia or something," he says, burying his face in her shoulder. Emma pulls away, ruffling his hair and shaking her head with a tremulous smile.

"I'm fine kid."

Keeping an arm around him, she looks up to the people that clutter her room. Some are bruised and they look worse for wear but nonetheless alive. Walking forward, Emma's mouth opens and closes around a thousand questions. Finally though, she verbalises her thoughts.

"What happened…? I thought – I thought the Snow Queen…?" It's barely cohesive but it's enough that her parents' faces are shadowed by sympathetic understanding. They don't answer her though, Henry does. His voice is high and wispy with youthful eagerness.

"She did, she tried to attack us but we were ready! Killian warned us!" he says, grinning up at her.

Emma's mouth drops open, she looks up and seeks him out with her eyes. His gaze flits up to meet hers.

"But I thought… Wait, she told me you couldn't do both – how the hell did you warn them _and _get to me in time?" she asks, a strange brand of anger rising up in her because _he could have told her and saved her a whole lot of heartache and fear. _Killian sighs heavily, the room is quiet and everyone is looking uncertainly between the princess and the pirate.

"I happened to run into the boy on my way to you and managed to impart enough details for them to prepare."

There is a battle between warmth and irritation thriving in her stomach. She is grateful and shocked and awed beyond belief that he somehow managed to outwit the Snow Queen. But she is also furious that he let her believe they were going to die. The least he could have done was tell her they had a fighting chance before she passed out.

Her eyes narrow marginally and he holds her gaze evenly, silently daring her to yell at him.

Her parents cut in before anything can come to a head. Mary Margaret rocks baby Neal back and forth in a gentle sway, voice low and delicate so as not to wake the sleeping infant.

"Before you ask, there were no casualties – unless you count the bookstore. It got pretty torn up," she tells Emma with a reassuring smile. The heaviness on her shoulders dissipates so she feels almost weightless in its absence, the relief strong. Across the room, Emma's eyes meet Killian's again (they meet several times in the lengthy conversations about the battle that follow: how they held her off, how they defended the town, how David even managed to strike a blow to the evil bitch's back with the butt of his sword).

Later, when the Charming family is alone in their kitchen, they tell her the exact details of the story. Henry explains how Killian found him, told him – in summary – what was about to happen. The boy regales the moments that followed his return; with her pale and blue and soaking wet in his arms as he carried her through the apartment and deposited her on her bed (how he dragged the various blankets across her shaking limbs, how he stayed, how he waited until she was secure to care for his declining state of warmth). Her son cannot sing the pirate's praises any higher, or with any greater esteem. Her parents glance at her occasionally, knowing and probing all at once.

She keeps her face unreadable, her eyes fixed on Henry.

8888

The clean-up takes a week, and the Snow Queen is relatively dormant during that time. She doesn't reappear to strike when they are preoccupied with sweeping off the broken glass, replacing the windows and shovelling the mountainous piles of snow that dot the main thoroughfare. Something about that doesn't sit well with Emma and she ignores the burgeoning need to act.

She is unashamedly bitter about the woman's personal attack on her.

So when he returns to taking lessons with Regina (thankfully, unlike the sickly Elsa's, Emma's neutralising spell wares of quickly), the sentiments are thick and potent enough to fuel her power. She learns quickly – in between searching for an alternative cure for Killian. They read and practice, read and practice, read and practice some more. It is a never-ending cycle but one that she sources comfort from.

After so many weeks of chaos, it is nice to fall into a routine. Especially when that routine involves strategy meetings that _he _attends. He's always hiding in the corner, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle as he silently listens and occasionally (sparsely) makes comment.

It is small.

But it is something.

8888

"How are you fairing?"

She is half-way out the door when he asks. Pausing, Emma turns and distantly notes that they are completely alone for the first time in what feels like a long time. Ever since he saved her (_chose her_, her mind corrects hopefully), he's been subtly avoiding her.

She thinks it might be something to do with what the Snow Queen said.

_"…You see, I'm giving his already bruised conscience a bit of a work out. I'm going to give him a terribly vexing choice, one that will define what happens from here on out."_

Several things about that statement still ring in her ears, unnerving in all its high pitched tenor. For one, she wants to know what was defining about that particular choice. Considering her plans were foiled, she should have retaliated by now – but she hasn't. So either something went wrong, or something went terribly right (both thoughts are distressing because both mean trouble).

That isn't the part of her comment that sticks with her though – the part about his conscience does. And it somewhat explains his distance from her; if he was confused before, she can only imagine the inner turmoil wreaking havoc on his heart and mind right now when he's been forced to confront a deeper facet to his person.

Emma tucks her hands in her back pockets and shrugs, "Better now."

He is quiet for a moment; seemingly unsure of what to do (it still aches, how painfully out of synch the Queen has made them). But then he scratches the spot behind his ear with his hook and nods. His eyes flit to hers and he starts to walk towards her, giving her a wide berth as he heads for the door.

Two words escape her mouth before she's even aware she decided to speak.

"Thank you."

Killian pauses and turns, face impassive. It is an obvious mask and one she knows well. Unfortunately, it is also one that she can no longer remove. So she settles for the indecipherable set of his jaw as he asks indifferently, "For what?"

Emma shrugs again, feeling awkward with him so obviously scrutinising her.

"You saved everyone," she says earnestly, holding his gaze meaningfully.

But Killian merely shakes his head, "No, I didn't. I damned them. I saved _you_."

His tone suggests an underlining of irritation, enough that it conceals most of his self-loathing. Not completely though, because she notices both items as they appear momentarily in his arctic eyes. Taking a breath, Emma steps closer to him.

"You warned Henry," she counters.

"Only because I happened upon him by complete coincidence. I didn't make any external efforts, let me assure you."

There is a bite to his voice, enough to make frustration flare up in her belly. Emma rolls her eyes and grits her teeth, folding her arms across her chest. She tells him sharply, "Just accept the damn gratitude, Hook."

"Not when it isn't deserved."

A long pause stretches out where she simply watches him.

"Why are you so desperate for me to think the worst of you?"

"Why are you so desperate to see the best in me?"

His response is instant and exasperated, a short insight that tugs at the dusty strings of her heart like an ancient guitar being strummed to life. She recognises his misunderstanding, his inability to comprehend (she remembers conversations – they feels lifetimes ago) (she remembers telling him, showing him, making him believe that he was what she wanted – still wants) (she remembers a lot of things).

He drops her gaze after a long moment, storming out the door in a whirlwind of black leather. The room echoes in his absence.

8888

"So… Killian's changing."

Henry chomps happily on his cereal as Emma stiffens, hand half-way to the cabinet above the stove. Her back is to him, so he cannot see the dumbfounded expression on her face. Hopefully, he is too consumed by his Cheerios to realise that she has stilled.

Mentally kicking herself, she hums a non-committal response and continues putting the cereal box back in the cupboard. She moves to the fridge, the only sound in the too-quiet kitchen the loud crunch that resounds every time her son bites down on a little golden loop. Leaning over to pull out the milk, his voice drifts over to her again – the optimism in it is a tangible thing.

"He'll come back, you know," he says, taking another bite and forming the words around the mouthful of milk and cereal, "With or without his memories – things always have a way of just… regressing to the mean."

Emma shuts the fridge and turns to him, leaning against it and folding her arms with a raised eyebrow.

"What does that even mean?" she asks, watching the boy carefully as he smirks. The smug tilt to his lips is a little too familiar for her liking but she ignores that in the face of his eyes sparkling with mischief. It's probably got something to do with the fact that this pre-pubescent boy has one-upped his mother in philosophical gems. It never ceases to amaze her how dysfunctional her dynamic with her family is.

"Basically just that things always have a way of evening out," Henry says proudly, spooning another golden heap into his mouth. Emma frowns and walks over to the kitchen island to stand directly opposite him. She leans over it and narrows her eyes.

"Where the hell did you get that from?"

"Teen Wolf."

Rolling her eyes, she takes his empty bowl and spoon, pouring the leftover contents down the sink as he jumps off the chair and makes a quick path towards the couch. The lightness she feels in the light of his naïve advice is foreign after weeks of isolation in this apartment with no one to talk to and not a soul to coax her from her shadows. She calls out to him with a soft, affectionate curl to her mouth.

"Remind me to pay more attention to your Netflix purchases."

Henry merely laughs.

8888

Sleep eludes him.

He tosses and turns in the too soft bed in his new lodgings at Granny's diner - courtesy of Emma's family's good graces with the innkeeper. The mattress is damp with his sweat as he clenches his fists in the cool cotton at his sides, bunching it up and whipping his head from side to side.

His entire body is being seized by fire – an emotional inferno that consumes him. It's been getting worse for days now; ever since he saved her, ever since he was forced to choose, forced to run his bruised and battered soul through the ringer. It wants to erupt from his chest with his heart in tow, both entities roiling painfully with the turmoil that eddies beneath his skin. But they are rooted too firmly within him to escape, and he can do nothing but wait until the sensation passes as it does every night.

This night though, this night is different.

He watched her today; he's been letting his gaze linger for longer durations of time. The cold voice in his head screeches at him when he does, but he's growing to ignore its presence. Whenever he can, he glances her face; studies the slope of her cheek, the vibrant colour of her eyes, the waterfall of her hair down her leather-clad back. He takes note of her expressions, of the minute variations that indicate exasperation, anger, happiness, frustration, exhaustion. He's learning her the way a sailor learns the sea, and he cannot fathom why it feels so important to do so.

With every day that passes, he can feel the war raging in his chest intensifying. That locked box rattles with more fervency, the frost struggling to swallow let alone conceal the sentiments that blossom from his heart and unfold outwards, encompassing his entire body so it is as though he is being continuously submerged in hot and cold water: warmth one minute and frigid indifference the next.

And while he has an overwhelming desire to block it all out, to once again welcome the cool grasp of whatever has beheld him for the past weeks, he is so close to evading its clasp forever he can almost taste it. He needs to remember, he needs to understand why this woman is so important to him, why he dismissed his revenge for her, why he traded his ship for her, why he _changed _for her.

Grinding his teeth together, Killian struggles in silence. His heart beats at an alarming rate, his brow is coated with sweat and he turns again. His mind roars at the onslaught, a particularly sharp pain in his chest erupting with the precision of a needle. Then suddenly, several images flash behind his lids, blinding in all their brightness and unfamiliarity.

_They are surrounded by oversized treasure and she is jumping towards him, reaching out, yanking him bodily away from a tripwire that would have left them both trapped. He responds by trapping her in his arms, relishing in the feel of her warm curves pressed against his hard lines._

_Her eyes are blazing and they stand in Granny's deserted diner, her family behind her, her friends behind them – she is a leader and a saviour and a force to be reckoned with. She is holding her hand out, words echoing in his ears 'be a part of something, be a part of something, be a part of something…'_

_There is green everywhere, it is humid and the air is thick and his ears are tickled by the sounds of insects that are dually beautiful and dangerous. She is smirking at him and then she is yanking him forward – _for what, he doesn't know. The flash ends abruptly, interrupted by one last one – it stretches out for several seconds where the others were mere iotas.

_Wind is whipping around them; they stand in the middle of a long stretch of road. A modern vehicle, _her_ modern vehicle, is parked behind her. There are tears in her eyes and the inexplicable promise of 'good' on her lips. Then he is pulling away, and with it the darkness clouds his vision until the last image disappears into the smoke of his hazy mind._

Killian wakes with a gasp, sitting up abruptly and releasing the sheets all at once. He cannot yet attribute any emotions to the strange flashes, but they are irrevocably carved into him. They are a random assortment of fleeting seconds that stay in his mind long after his breathing has calmed and he has wiped the sweat from his brow.

He still cannot remember, and the icy hand drains the emotional potency of those brief recollections so their context and significance is lost. But they are _his _memories of the life that the Snow Queen erased – of that he is sure. And with every minute he spends scrutinising them in his mind (how she looked at him, how he could feel himself looking at her, how they moved in tandem with each other), he feels the tide of the battle within him turning.

8888

She's got to wonder when she lost her mind. After all, why else would she have agreed to this?

They are trekking through the woods, searching for any sign of the Snow Queen, and she refuses to feel uncomfortable around him. It's a futile effort though, her mind is still whirring unco-operatively in response to the morning's strange turn of events. When Killian volunteered to take the morning route with her through the forest in search of clues to their icy foe's whereabouts, she was certain she had been in some strange convoluted dream.

Now though, navigating heavy logs and thick underbrush and dense snow, she regrets staying silent (although, that had been more of a by-product of her shock than anything else). It's been silent since they started, a copious amount of tension hanging precariously in the cold air between them.

And it's as he glances her way for the fifteenth time since they began that she decides to turn towards him and pull to a stop. Her frustration bubbles up into her voice unintentionally.

"Why did you volunteer to come with me?" she asks.

Killian is pulled up short and he pauses momentarily, and she can tell from the way he studies her that he is deciding whether or not to lie. Recently, he's become more adept at making the right choice in that department. He takes a deep breath, folds his arms across his chest and nods curtly.

"I still have questions."

The inadvertent reminder of their confrontation all that time ago pulls her up short. Rivulets of apprehension run down the gradient of her mind, pooling in a deep crevasse in the pits of her stomach so she too folds her arms protectively around herself. Emma swallows and straightens, masking her vulnerability with a hard façade (even with it, she still feels raw and exposed to him – like a nerve).

"What do you want to know?"

He takes less than a second to respond, tone brazen even if his eyes flicker with apprehension, "I want to know what we were."

Any attempt she may have made towards schooling her features flies away on wings of astonishment and perhaps the tiniest feathers of hope. It takes a moment but she does gather herself enough to reply lowly, "Don't act like you don't know, Hook. You've got enough of the information by now – you don't need me to tell you what we were." She turns to walk away by catches him nodding gently to himself and stops.

"Aye. I suppose you're right… but there are some things I don't – uh – I don't know and no one but you can truly tell me…"

He scratches the spot behind his ear and Emma narrows her eyes. What could possibly make him feel so uncomfortable that he can barely choke out the question? He's never had trouble weaving an innuendo out of nothing before, let alone making a simple inquiry. When he's still silent a minute later, she sighs, stepping closer and catching his gaze to hold it steadily.

"Spit it out. There's no one else around," she shrugs, looking around them as though to emphasize the point.

"Did we… was it ever confirmed that we… Were we _true love_?" His eyes search hers and her face drops. She shuffles from foot to foot, and it feels like someone just dropped a dumbbell on her gut.

Shaking her head gently, she tells him, "No. We weren't… I mean, it was never _confirmed_ that we – uh – well, we never got to test it out so I don't know."

He nods, absorbing the information before he asks, "How long had we been together when this all happened?"

For some reason, that question makes her smirk as she thinks about the extensive preamble to their long-awaited relationship. He notes her smirks and frowns but is patient nonetheless, quiet as he waits for her answer. It feels strange to be so frank about their relationship – especially when they're decidedly not in it anymore. She wasn't even this calm about confronting their dynamic when it was _happening._

Dismissing that thought, she swallows her reservations and answers – still smirking lightly.

"Well, to be honest that's a complicated question. We've known each other for about a year in total but there was also a year in between that where I forgot everything and we didn't see each other and we only got together a little while ago but a strong case could be made for even earlier than that to be honest."

In the wake of her convoluted explanation his jaw drops open.

"You weren't lying lass, that's fairly complicated."

"You're telling me."

His lips curl in a ghost of a genuine smile (the first one she's seen in an exceedingly long time) before dropping back down. All of a sudden, he seems very uncomfortable again as a thought visibly crosses his mind. He looks down and Emma's eyebrows lift in speculation.

"What is it?"

One minute, one failed attempt to speak and one bone-weary sigh later, he's scrunching his eyes self-consciously and walking around her as he forces himself to ask, "Were we ever… _intimate?_"

Emma's eyes widen, tracing his back as he continues to walk through the forest. She follows after him and struggles for a response, the answer quite definitive but his question nonetheless startling. She coughs and answers, "No, we weren't." When he turns on his heel, there's a confounded look on his face and she can just see him internally scratching his head, his thoughts all but written across his forehead: how was there relationship so prolific if it was unconsummated? Moreover, how did she manage to keep the notorious pirate captain celibate?

She chuckles slightly at his expression, looking down and stammering as she adds, "Not for lack of trying. There was just never time – there was always another disaster in this town. The Snow Queen kind of always found a way to put a chink in our plans." The smile on her face is tentative when she lifts her head to meet his gaze.

His eyes are trained on her and his features soften, the corners of his lips twitching up even as his eyebrows maintain their furrowed bearing on his forehead. The moment is warm in the frost of the forest and that pesky sliver of optimism flares uncontrollably in her chest because _he_ may not remember but he's looking at her with a fondness the likes of which _she_ remembers.

Unfortunately, as the second tick by, the blankness creeps back into his face – leeching the transitory affection until there is only apathy in its place. Her face drops too and a breeze tickles her skin, reminding her that they have a job to do (and that trying to reach him with the glass still lodged firmly in his heart is an exercise in futility). Trying to shove away the disappointment, she wraps her jacket tighter around herself and brushes past him. She makes it two steps before he's asking another question.

"What's wrong with me?"

Emma pivots slowly to face him.

Killian glares at the ground, lone fist clenched.

She shrugs lightly, attempting an unaffected air as she murmurs in a husk, "You've lost your memories."

He shakes his head vigorously, head whipping up to stare at her. His eyes burn holes in her face, a prodigious intensity resting in their icy depths. With his teeth grinding together, he tells her "No – there's something more. I can tell everyone else knows. The Snow Queen also made comment." He pauses, deep in thought for a second – reminiscing the exact sentence probably – but then he is shaking his head again, "And it's the only explanation as to why you all continue to treat me amiably despite my acting like a complete bastard."

It shouldn't be a surprise that he's figured out there's more to his condition than a simple memory spell – he's always been an observant bastard.

"I –"

"And don't tell me you don't know because you're like a bloody open book, love."

Her heart stutters on the familiar turn of phrase. It's not the first time she's been blindsided by that ticking sensation of déjà vu yet it never fails to steal the breath from her lungs. Emma drinks in his tormented features; she measures the dark circles under his eyes against her own and weighs the strain in his jaw against the tense line of his shoulders – he hasn't been sleeping. And now she knows why.

David and Mary Margaret had advised against telling him the truth with careful warnings that he mightn't take it well. But, looking at him and the silent plea carved into the creases in his face, she cannot deny him.

"You've got glass in your heart," she breathes, each word escaping her lips in a white wisp.

"I beg your pardon?"

Taking a deep breath, she looks anywhere but his face, picking at the sleeve of her jacket, scratching her nails against the seam where the leather folds into her wrist. A heavy sigh lands between them, piling onto the already crippling tension. Killian waits for her to elucidate though, his eyes never leaving her face as she manages to tell him.

"When… when the Snow Queen hit you with the memory spell… she also hit you with a shard of a mirror that got lodged in your heart. The mirror distorts everything so you can't – it's impossible for you to see the beauty in things," his face tightens momentarily at that, but she ploughs on – he wanted to know, after all, "or feel anything remotely positive… It's… it's why you…"

_It's why you don't love me anymore._

Swallowing the words (they scrape and struggle down the column of her throat, thick and bitter and just _wrong_), she says, "Uh – it's why you aren't yourself. At least, not the man I met in the Enchanted Forest."

In her mind, _that _man is still grinning like an idiot, golden light soaking his teasing features as they scale a beanstalk (and her emotional walls in the process). It is the memory of _that _man that keeps her in the dead of night when the demons come out to play and her bed is cold and empty (they might never have shared a bed, but they should have). Whenever she feels the darkness encroaching whispering tantalising words of _let go_, she reaches for that mental image of him.

Dragging herself from her reverie, she notes the tightness in his features. Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him, perhaps she shouldn't have said a word – perhaps, she thinks, she should have simply lied and dealt with his anger (that would be easier than this man with furrowed brows, flexing fingers and a demeanour that screams _tormented_).

"So… when we met," he asks, interrupting her thoughts, "I wasn't like _this_?"

The way his says the last word is so utterly full of acrimony that her chest aches (it always aches – the least it can do is by unpredictable if it's going to hurt so goddamn much).

She gestures lamely to him before dropping her arms to her sides. Muffling the urge to reach out to him, she answers in a voice like glass, "No. You weren't – you were a bit of an ass hole but you weren't… like this."

Without warning, he's striding forward with determination. It sparkles in his eyes and lights flames where he walks, so potent she can taste it when he crowds her spaces and almost begs her, "How do I get it out?"

_True Love's Kiss._

_Something that can never happen in your predicament (how oddly ironic)._

"Um…"

His eyes are wild as they dart around her face and she grapples for a response. Before she can say anything though, there is the sound of someone crashing through the trees. They both twist to face the possible threat, drawing their respective weapons and letting them fall when it's David who bursts through the tree line, breathing heavily but nonetheless okay.

Her father's blue eyes latch onto hers, and her stomach drops onto the forest floor when he manages to gasp out, "We found her!"

* * *

**Did you pick up on the hint? Are we liking where this is going? I'm terribly self-conscious of my writing so _tell me how you feel_!**


	6. Part Five: Rook Takes Queen

**Okay so it's been a while since I updated but I feel like that is partially counteracted by the fact that this is the longest update yet. We're coming to the end, there's only _one part left after this_. I truly cannot put into words how much I have appreciated your reviews and messages and I love you all very deeply and hope you all have a fantastic Christmas!**

**P.S. Don't kill me.**

* * *

**Part Five: Rook takes Queen**

"_We found her!_"

"Where is she?" is Emma's immediate response, reluctantly pulling away from Killian and making her way over to her father. He holds up a finger and keels over for a moment, catching his breath before he divulges any news. She takes the transitory break to glance in Killian's direction; he has not yet moved and he stares at the ground like it holds the answers to his prayers (it occurs to her, not for the first time in the past five minutes, that telling him was a mistake). But then he swallows whatever is choking him, sidles up to her and focuses his attention on her father like nothing out of the ordinary just happened; it's not as though he is now painfully aware of the very real, very magical object lodged in one of his primary organs.

His poker face is remarkable, she thinks, as he studies her father with a blank expression.

David's eyes shift uneasily between them for a second, no doubt questioning their former proximity. But he gathers himself enough to finally say, "West of here – Belle and Gold were looking for ways to track her whereabouts –"

"She's been pretty good at hiding her tracks so far, how do we know this isn't a trap?" Emma intercedes instantly, eyebrows drawn in scepticism. David nods, as though he was expecting that, and answers her with wide eyes and a voice tilted by adrenalin.

"They _couldn't_ track her – you're right," he says, earning himself a round of raised eyebrows, "So Kristoff and I came out here to bring you back for a town meeting; we were going to stage a man-hunt again. And while we were looking for you both, we found it –"

"Are you sure it is hers?" Killian asks, shuffling forward eagerly, eyes glittering with the barest smattering of newly kindled bloodlust. His fist is clenched and Emma has to forcibly remind herself not to reach out and link her fingers through his in an effort to calm him. It's been more difficult recently, to act like basic acquaintances around him when she can _see _him changing, reverting to the man she knows he can be without even realising it. The fact that her all-too-observant son made comment just the other day is a testament in itself.

David watches Killian warily, "Unless you know anyone else in Storybrooke who is a fan of giant ice caves hidden in the forest?"

"Wait – did you go _inside_?" Emma asks, her protective instincts rising up and mutating quickly into anger. For a moment, her father shifts guiltily from foot to foot but then he lifts his chin and nods unapologetically in an affirmative answer. She wants to glare but she loses her train of thought when he relays the bare outline of a plan; there will be time for her to reprimand him later.

"We didn't stay long but she wasn't home. Kristoff is getting everybody together – we're meeting everyone at Gold's shop to figure out what to do."

She nods tightly and is about to follow her father back through the trees, when she notices Killian's rigidity. She's only taken one step when she realises he is not following them and she turns, lifting a sceptical eyebrow at his wordless refusal to join them.

His jaw is locked, his knuckles are white, and he has murder in his eyes.

It's the glass; she can almost see it working on him, flushing his body with black bile.

"Hook?" Emma asks tentatively, catching his attention so his eyes snap up to hers.

His gaze darts away in the direction David pointed and he shakes his head feverishly.

"You expect me to waste time making a plan when we can ambush her _now_?" he spits.

Emma takes a step in his direction, softening her voice as she says, "We can't just go in all guns blazing, for all we know she's in there now waiting for us –"

"What ever happened to blindsiding her?" he accuses, eyes dark. She feels the air change, become charged with something volatile. Maybe it's because she knows he's just responding to the fact that he is emotionally compromised but she doesn't find him dangerous, not even with his teeth grinding together and his eyes spelling dark, macabre things. Not even with his hand twitching at the sword on his belt and his hook glinting in the sunlight filtering down through the leaves. Not even then.

He just doesn't strike her as a threat.

She swallows the urge to snap back a response and keeps her voice deliberately smooth, "That was different. Elsa's life was in danger."

Killian scoffs derisively, "Oh yes, and it's not as though the Snow Queen has an unfounded vendetta that spans the population of this town and a new plan we cannot yet divulge."

"Elsa's life was in _immediate _danger."

"This _town _is in _constant _danger with her around or have you forgotten your little encounter with her the other day? We need to –"

By now, she is only a few feet away from him, enough space between them and David that her father won't hear her voice if she keeps it steady enough. She catches his gaze and holds it, interrupting his tangent with a firm one of her own (she may not be able to physically reach out to him, but there is more than one way to get to a person when they are consumed by their own demons – his ability to conquer her walls with one look was evidence enough).

"Killian," she stops him (that mutinous heart of hers aches again at the same moment his face becomes a pillar of anguish, eyes softening), "Blindsiding her when she is in _her _domain is not a good plan. I know you're angry – trust me, _I know. _I am too." His gaze darts between her eyes, and he must see the residual hurt there (weeks of pain will do that to a person) because his shoulders slump slightly.

She shuffles closer again, tilting her head ever so slightly up so she can stare directly into his face, a quiet fierceness bubbling under her breath, "But we need to get back to town and come up with a better plan so nobody gets hurt, alright?"

An infinitely long moment unfolds between them where she can hear David shifting his weight impatiently. Other than that, there is but silence and breathing. His gaze digs into her, he is searching for something in her face; an answer, a resolution, a strategy, a salvation.

Whatever it is he eventually sees, it is enough that he drops his gaze to the forest floor and nods imperceptibly. His face closes off, thick impenetrable curtains shrouding any and all emotions from her.

"We should hasten to the town before she finds out we know the location of her lair," Killian says with furrowed brows, brushing past her and walking around David. His abrupt change in demeanour unnerves her, but at the same time, she counts his acquiescence as a victory so she lets it go as he stalks away in the direction of town.

David and Emma exchange a look before they race after him, drawing closer to the town by the minute.

(Drawing closer to disaster by the second.)

8888

Kristoff is partway through his explanation when Emma, Killian and David enter Gold's shop. The typically-hostile location has become a rendezvous point of sorts and the deceptively homely antique store is brimming with people: Emma's mother, the dwarves, Ruby and Granny, the Merry Men, Gold and his wife. David leads them through the crowded space towards the sound of Kristoff's gravelly voice.

He is talking directly to Mary Margaret and Regina, the two women standing side-by-side in an identical stance – hands on their hips and focus on their face. Anna stands at her fiancé's side, listening intently as he regales how he and David incidentally happened upon the Snow Queen's hide out. As he finishes, Gold is the first to speak.

Out of habit, Killian bristles beside Emma and she silently warns him with a glance.

"There is no way on this Earth that she didn't intend for you to find her lair," he scorns, "Physical cloaking spells are obscenely simple to conduct and she would not have made such an elementary mistake. Do not be so foolish as to underestimate her wiles."

"Then why didn't she kill us when she had the chance?" Kristoff retorts, slightly cowed.

Gold leers, "Because she has bigger fish she needs to fry." His eyes drift deliberately in Emma's direction and she feels her face grow hot. "If there is one thing the Snow Queen is good at, it's setting traps."

"So what do we do about it?" Emma asks, voicing the question on everyone's mind.

Gold's smirk is feral when he answers, "We play into it."

With a flourish of his hand, he procures a small vial that holds deceptively innocuous dust.

8888

Regina pulls Emma aside as they are leaving the shop, insistence carved into the grave turn of her lips. Killian watches the exchange warily and can just hear the tail end of their conversation as he passes them, ears perking at their voices and straining for sound.

"Remember the loophole we found," Regina urges quietly, "Remember to use it if you can."

Emma nods, "Trust me. I will."

8888

As they hike through the woods, he idly notes that any time he spends with the Swan girl and her family inevitably ends in traversing forests with any number of dangers hanging precariously over his head.

Mary Margaret and Kristoff are leading the way, both experienced in the art of retracing footsteps forged in the wild. Both evidently possess significant practice, and even if they didn't – David is trailing behind them, eyes scanning the ground for traces they may have missed or misinterpreted. Then again, both the King and Queen have only tagged along because the innkeeper and her daughter are looking after their infant child; Neal. Personally, he finds their solidarity foolish. Should they both die in this fight, Neal and Emma would both be left orphaned and he's all too familiar with the feeling of loss that entails.

Then again, if all goes to plan there will be no fight to begin with.

He walks a short distance from Emma, his hand constantly twitching for his sword at the slightest sound. His body is a livewire - for multiple reasons. There is his newfound understanding of the depth of his affliction (knowing there is glass in his heart is, unsurprisingly, quite unsettling), as well as the growing realisation that getting it out must be exceptionally difficult if they haven't extracted it just yet. Then there's the burgeoning recognition of emotions swimming in his blood, fighting the cold that barely has the ability to touch him anymore. Piling on top of that, there's the overwhelming urge to protect Emma Swan from the Snow Queen's wrath.

Which is why he trails behind her, hyper aware of every movement and every noise in her immediate vicinity. His eyes are constantly perusing the area, on a never ending loop of the space she inhabits in search of danger. It is strange how invested he is in her safety.

A voice in his head mocks his thoughts, claiming underestimation. _You're long past the point of merely worrying about her, _it chides.

But there's something else, too. Something he can't quite process, let alone vocalise. As he continues to walk, he thinks about Emma's words earlier that day when they were inspecting the woods. Specifically, he ponders the way she revealed his circumstances with quiet words and a tangible hesitation.

_"It's impossible for you to see the beauty in things…"_

It sticks to him, crawling around his head and refusing to drift off into the abyss of fleeting thoughts. And while he cannot decide what it is about the diagnosis that strikes him, he knows that it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like the truth, not when _he_ is the one experiencing the effects of the Snow Queen's dour enchantment.

Initially, he would have said she was correct in making that assumption.

In the days immediately following his 'arrival,' he couldn't see anything worth looking at twice. It certainly translated in his actions. For the life of him, he could not understand why he would have given up on his revenge let alone why he would have sacrificed his _ship_ (his only home, the only constant he'd ever known) for a woman who was decidedly _not _Milah.

But days and weeks passed and he slowly encountered her with a greater frequency, learnt the complexities of their relationship and the depth of their history, was all but forced to get to know her. Then, to his utmost surprise and horror, she'd begun to strike him as something worth reconsidering (something fierce and bright and intriguing beyond all comprehendible measure). But it wasn't uncontaminated _beauty_ – not yet.

Not until –

"Alright, everybody," David calls, interrupting Killian's thoughts. He swallows the words, suddenly afraid of what they denote, and strides to where everyone is gathering. His shoulder brushes Emma's and he refuses to look in her direction when sparks erupt across his skin at the inadvertent physical contact.

Her father waits until their small group is organised to speak, and he truly has the voice of a royal when he tells them, "Her cave is just through there. Does everybody remember the plan?"

The group nods their assent and Emma and Killian immediately move towards the front. She gives her parents one last reassuring nod and a tight smile before she's moving forwards. They are supposed to enter the Snow Queen's lair under the guise of discovery as she has anticipated, and then wait. When she reveals herself, they are to keep her occupied so that Gold and Regina may neutralise her. Of course, there is a contingency plan but they will get to that only if they need to (which, in his opinion, is a very likely scenario).

Emma leads the way until, surely enough, a cliff wall appears before them – it's rough, grey surface broken by a ragged cave mouth. Sharp icicles border the yawning hole in the wall, a downy floor of snow reaching out of the dwelling and onto the grass where it eventually fades into the dirt. He peeks once in the blonde's direction; he is still uncomfortable with her being the proverbial bait.

He can shoulder that honour alone – even insisted it back at Gold's shop when they decided Emma would accompany him. But apparently he does not enamour the woman nearly as much as Emma, and at least with her at his side he has an ally with magical abilities. Of course, that is no consolation when he knows how easy it was for the Snow Queen to neutralise her last time.

If this plan backfires, he can only imagine what lays wait for them both.

Not for the first time, he has to question his priorities.

They circle the mouth of the fissure until they stand on opposite sides of its periphery. Drawing his sword at the same moment she retrieves her gun, they share a nod and shuffle cautiously into the Snow Queen's temporary home. Every surface is white or constructed from ice-like glass, the walls adorned by a variety of intricate mirrors.

They move together further into the cavern (he scrutinises everything in front of him as well as everything remotely near her). It opens up into a wide room where the only thing _not _made up of harsh lines and rigid surfaces is a plush chaise that sits in the centre of the room. An elaborate circular frame is located on the opposite wall and he feels his heart squeeze for some unfathomable reason.

He doesn't realise he's wafting towards it until Emma hisses his name, asking, "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head and mutters, "Nothing, I just… that frame feels familiar for some reason."

Her eyebrows draw together and she looks over her shoulder before meeting him directly in front of the strange frame. There is no picture in it, but by the looks of it, it once held _something. _His heart is thudding harder in his chest, but he doesn't know why.

The thought is cut short when there is a sound from the mouth of the cave. It echoes off the crystalline walls and Killian's head snaps toward Emma at the same time hers veers towards him. Before he knows what's happening, she has a hand around his elbow and is dragging him behind the floating frame towards the wall.

Instinctively, he pushes himself against it so roughly he feels as though he should melt into it. The cold burns through his clothing so a shiver wracks his body when his hand falls flat beside him. She mirrors his movement, and they both strain to hear the noise that drew them from their observations.

However, several moments pass where nothing happens and his shoulders relax in tandem with hers, a foggy sigh escaping their mouths. She turns her head to regard him a tight smile of relief and for some godforsaken reason, that's when it hits him with all the force and swiftness of a freight train.

Their backs are still pressed tight against the wall, and he cannot fathom why it occurs to him in that instant but it does. His eyes trace the line of her profile, and he frowns as the fog in his mind clears for a split second; enough for realization to forge an unstoppable path.

He feels foolish for taking this long to notice.

His voice comes without permission, the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden and unbridled.

"You're wrong."

Emma's head tilts to the side, eyebrows drawn in confusion. She eyes him and answers, in a voice that broaches no room for anything but sarcasm, "You'll have to be more specific, I've been wrong about a lot of things lately –"

"_You're_ beautiful."

Her mouth drops open and he feels a piece of him click into place.

It's what's been gnawing at his chest, the fact that she said he cannot see the beauty in things. Or at least, he shouldn't be able to. But he _can. _Because he sees her, and she is the most beautiful thing he has laid eyes on in an exceedingly long time; and it only (_finally_) occurred to him just hours prior.

With the morning sun lighting her face, stoking the constantly burning flame in her eyes, her voice quietly fierce and wildly determined as she bid him to think before he acted (coaxing out a level of patience he didn't know existed). It was then, with every piece of information but one, that something shifted irrevocably and he saw what he'd been slowly growing aware of for weeks.

Emma Swan is beautiful. Exceptionally so. In every way that a person can be.

She struggles to answer him, but eventually manages a breathless "What?"

"I _can _see the beauty in things – I see you," he says, sure and determined and somehow weightless. Admitting this tiny insignificant thing feels like floating in a pool of water, like the chains dragging him down are just beginning to fall off his limbs. More than that, telling her this makes the cold grip on his heart falter. For an iota, there is unimaginable warmth, the sort that is gold and light and _pure._

"Wha – I… Killian –"

"Well, well, well… look what we have here."

The moment shatters when the Snow Queen's voice pierces the air. He is still holding her gaze so he sees the way her eyes widen in a mixture of shock and barely visible fear before she punches it down and adopts a neutral expression of determination. Taking a deep breath, Emma painstakingly drops her eyes from his and leads him out from behind the mirror into the center of the room where the woman waits patiently. There is no point in hiding – not when they are in _her _territory.

Poised like a snake, she surveys them both. Killian's fist clenches of its own accord, the heat in his eyes burning bright enough to melt this infernal cave.

"I am so glad you found the time to visit me in my home – Turkish delight?" she gestures to a bowl of the treats on a glassy table.

"No thanks," Emma returns curtly, "We're not here for your candy."

Her face twists into a sneer and she chuckles scathingly, "Oh, now that _is such _a surprise."

The woman takes one step and then another, circling them so they have to move to keep their distance. All the while she talks, and they both feel the stifling pressure of anticipation grinding on their bones as they let her distract herself with idle commentary.

"I've actually been waiting for you to find me, Emma. I was truly hoping we could have a nice long talk," she says, still moving, "I'm not going to lie. I left my cave unattended specifically for you to find it. As luck would have it, you did… and brought along your pet pirate. I would have thought by now you'd know how imprudent it is to have him accompany you – especially after the last time."

At his side, Emma bristles but stays silent.

"It is of no real concern to me, of course. Not when he will be among the casualties _you _inflict. I won't have to do a thing."

They both frown at her and her lips tilt up, happy to have piqued their interest. A leaden weight is slipping into his gut as the woman tells them, "You see, I've never wanted to hurt you or Elsa. I've only ever wanted to help, make you both stronger, better. And when I do…" her voice drifts off and she closes her eyes in some disturbed rumination, "When I do, you will not only be my sisters. You will be my weapons."

Killian glances to Emma; fear has begun to seep into her mask of indifference.

"In order to build you, I must break you. No one will be able to salvage you once I have finished. No one will be able to stop you. No one will survive your wrath – not your friends, not your family. You will destroy _everyone_," she announces in velvet tones.

He doesn't have to look to know Emma's facade has dropped in the wake of this woman's self-assured words. He can almost hear her thought process, the way she is no doubt running through the list of people this sorceress can turn her against. He wants to offer her reassurance that she would never do that, that she is stronger than anything this woman could conjure, but he doesn't know how – so he merely glares at their aggressor with as much hatred as he can muster.

The Snow Queen's back now faces the cave's opening and he can just make out silhouettes approaching behind her as she stops walking. It calms him ever so slightly, knowing that this will all be over soon. This woman will be defeated one way or another. There is no way she cannot be – their plan is not bulletproof by any means but it is steadfast enough that he houses faith in it. Especially since they have such a wide variety of fall back plans (her family made comment on having experienced enough villainous curve-balls to last a lifetime).

His thoughts are cut short by the Snow Queen's high-pitched voice addressing him directly, tone breathy as it floats around his head like a cold caress.

"And _you_. You look more aggravated than the last time I saw you," she smirks, "That wouldn't have anything to do with some revelation pertaining to your current condition would it? Your strange inability to treat with compassion those who offer you nothing but sympathy has troubled you recently hasn't it?"

He growls a feral sound and Emma shuffles closer to him when she tells him, "She's trying to rile you up to fuel the glass's influence over you – don't let her."

"Smart girl," the Snow Queen praises with a maniacal grin. But then her face deadpans and she almost seems like she's glowering, the contrast in her expression so sudden it takes his breath away. She never stops looking at them when she says, "Not smart enough to outdo me, though."

They don't even have time to ask what she means before she's lifting her fist high in the air so the roof of the cave entrance behind her begins to shake. He seeks out the outlines of the sorcerers behind the Snow Queen, watches as they stumble before stepping back just in time to avoid the snow and ice that crashes down to block the entrance. The Snow Queen's mouth curls into a menacing thing and she shakes her head gently.

"You _truly _thought I wouldn't know that your father and the thoughtless reindeer man had been here first? You think I'm so foolish as to believe you would deliberately enter my home without a plan – enter the lair of the lion without so much as forethought? Unlike you, I do not underestimate my foes."

She takes a deliberate step towards them and Killian is instantly maneuvering himself so his torso is angled in front of Emma's – shielding her as much as he can. He snarls at the sorceress eyeing them, flexing his grip on his sword. The shock at this turn of events hasn't truly taken effect yet, although that may be because they anticipated this. As much as they had wanted to stock faith in their original plan, there was never going to be a situation where the execution would be flawless. Truthfully, he'd internally acknowledged that this was the most likely scenario from the moment the strategy was proposed. And it was one he had agreed to with ease.

He glances at Emma once, nodding imperceptibly and turning to the Snow Queen (he doesn't stare long enough to see the deep-rooted fear in the blonde's eyes when she regards him).

"If you think that blade will ever touch me, you overestimate your abilities, Captain."

"Personally, I think you grossly underestimate my abilities, your majesty," he returns, biting off her name, lunging forward and deflecting a ball of magic with the flat of his sword. For a moment, she appears puzzled by his ability to refract the magic, but dismisses it – the weapon has been enchanted to repel this woman's spells courtesy of Regina.

"I see you have a new toy," the Snow Queen comments idly, pulling her elbow back and thrusting another toiling blue ball in his direction. Again, he shifts his grip and blocks its path so it lands against one of the walls with a fizzle. He cannot withhold the smirk of satisfaction at her frustration, using it to fuel his approach. Her eyes flick to Emma, and then she growls, "Two can play at that game."

From the ground, jagged ice monsters begin to take shape and something in his brain screams recognition. He sees it in Emma's eyes when she looks at them, her breathing coming in heavier than it did before. Whatever happened the last time they were battling these beasts, it panics her. For this plan to work though, he needs her focused.

Before all havoc can break loose, he booms across the space that separates them.

"You can do this, Swan!"

Her eyes snap to his but he barely has time to register it before one of the creations is lunging at him in tandem with the Snow Queen's magic. He moves fluidly through them, slicing and twisting out of reach, stabbing and side-stepping their attacks. In his periphery, he can see that she is dispatching the woman's minions in swift, steady motions and it heartens him. Ignoring the burning of his muscles, he shoves his way towards the Snow Queen until he stands only a few feet from her.

Although she glances occasionally in Emma's direction, her focus (and her rage) is very obviously fixated on him.

Which is exactly where they want it.

Sucking in a breath, he grits his teeth and purposefully swings his sword too high. He catches the head of the last monster trying to stab him but misses the ball of magic so it hits him in the shoulder, sending him reeling across the room and into a wall. He has barely begun to fall to the ground again, his sword lost in the jolting journey across the space, when the Snow Queen is in front of him, eyes alight with untempered arrogance as she uses her magic to hold him in place.

Striding up so she is chest to chest with him, she pins him with her eyes, "Do you want to know the truth, pirate?" He never gets the chance to answer because she is already speaking again, "I was _never_ going to let you live."

Barely a second passes before she is pulling her elbow back, ready to bury her hand roughly into his chest where his heart is thudding violently against his ribs. She falters when he smiles, a wide grin that splits his face. The Snow Queen tilts her head, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he levels her with a smug look.

"I thought you said you didn't underestimate your enemies," he pants, leaning forward to spit, "But you clearly underestimated _her_."

His words have only just passed his lips when her eyes widen in shock and she freezes. Her magical hold on him drops and he lands to the ice floor with a thump, scrambling up and around her to stand beside Emma whose arm is still outstretched – the vial of neutralizing urn dust clasped firmly between her shaking fingers. She closes her eyes and shivers, but he takes it as her reaction to their victory and sends her a hopeful expression. Behind them, the Snow Queen has stumbled backwards, falling slowly to her knees.

The stillness is unnerving, the silence deafening save the sound of their heavy breathing. He reaches out to hold her wrist, forcing her to drop it so he can take the vial from her. Around them lies the icy debris of the dead monsters, and as the spell takes effect, they slowly begin to melt into the floor once again.

Their victory wraps slowly but surely around him, prompting him to look at her. She looks at him too, her temples damp with a thin sheen of sweat, and he think her lips might be twitching into a smile –

The Snow Queen's deranged cackle ricochets off the high-ceilinged walls and they both stiffen. Whipping around to face her, they watch her twist around, still on her knees, to face them. Her face is nothing like he would have expected.

It's a terrifying mixture of amusement and anger and arrogance. She wears a rictus grin, teeth bared and cheeks tight. Her eyes sparkle with delight as she rocks ever so slightly back and forth.

"You got me," she coos softly, "You neutralized me. Congratulations to you."

Killian frowns down at the pathetic woman, alarm bells already tolling in his head. Either she is completely deranged, or she still thinks she's won. And with the way she looks between them, his gut is screeching the latter.

The Snow Queen's eyes flick towards him, stab into him, hold him incontrovertibly in place.

Her voice is calm and collected when she whispers, her upper lip curling with primal glee, "But that doesn't help _you_ does it, Captain? You still can't remember a thing, not when I've got my spell rooted in that lovely little shard of glass in your heart."

The heat in his chest simmers to life, teeth grinding together as the woman antagonizes him. She giggles and the sound grinds against his ears uncomfortably. He can feel Emma shift closer to him, her eyes darting between the woman on the floor and his quickly darkening face. Unfortunately, however, her movement only draws the Snow Queen's attention and gives her a new angle of attack.

"_I'm_ the only person who can remove that shard and we both know I can't do that while I'm powerless. Which means, sadly for you, that you will never remember what you had with that girl – let alone how to _feel_."

"Don't listen to her," Emma's voice implores him quietly at his side.

His head snaps towards her, half-pleading, half-livid, "But she's right – isn't she?"

He cannot define the expression on her face when he says that. He doesn't have the time to unravel her reaction though, because the Snow Queen is still talking – taunting and tormenting all at once as she leans forward on her knees, eyes intent on him (a predator scrutinizing prey) so it is impossible to look away.

She bares her teeth in a poor imitation of a grin, "You might neutralize me now," she admonishes gently, a knowing glint in her eyes before she tells him, "But without me you're stranded an emotionless imp – just as dark as every man you've ever despised. Your father. The King. Rumpelstiltskin."

He doesn't know how she knows about his father let alone his brother's murderer. It wouldn't surprise him, though, if she had dabbled in his past when they had worked together. Or even before then, when she first began considering him a threat. After all, isn't the old idiom to 'know thy enemy?'

He slips away from Emma's grip instantly, stalking forward so he can lift the woman into the air by her throat. He shoves her against a wall, heedless to his companion's reaction behind him – vision tainted red by her acid-drenched words. His whole body is on fire with the rage she induces and even though he knows her intention was to elicit a rise from him, he cannot deny the feeling of satisfaction when her head raps sharply against the icy surface of her cave.

"Shut up!" he roars at her, but she merely laughs and he shifts his grip so he can press his forearm harder into the fragile sinew of her neck, growling under his breath at the simple provocation she provides. The woman's eyes bug out as she struggles to breathe, yet she's still smirking and he doesn't know why – until the world around him comes back into focus and he hears someone else gasping for air behind him. Maintaining his iron grip on the slippery woman, he looks over his shoulder to where Emma is holding her throat and panting.

His eyebrows draw together, "Emma?"

The Snow Queen's frigid breath brushes his cheek when she manages to hiss through stunted rasps, "I would stop while you still can, pirate."

At that exact moment, Emma drops to her knees, and a red rash is climbing her neck, coloring her face an unhealthy shade. Eyes widening, Killian roars "Emma! What's wrong?" The only answer he gets is her wheezing and the Snow Queen's chortling suggestion that he let her go before it gets worse.

He softens his hold instantly but keeps their foe in place, watching the pieces fall into place as the pressure dissipates from Emma's neck as well. His eyes are glued to the blonde behind him when she falls forward with a heaving breath, palms slapping the floor as she sucks in as much oxygen as she can. He frowns down at her, a soft clicking sound resounding in the back of his mind as realization settles discouragingly in the marrow of his bones.

A chill runs through the air and he turns back to the Snow Queen, whose self-satisfied smirk broadcasts her glee just as surely as her iridescent eyes.

"What did you do?"

She grins knowingly, "You may want to let go of me first, dear. After all, you're only hurting her."

Heat ripples down his spine and the desire to slam her head against wall again is strong – but not strong enough to overcome the recognition that doing so will only hurt Emma. With stormy eyes and itching fingers, he finally extracts himself from her and steps back. However, he wastes no time in replacing his arm with the tip of his sword, holding it out towards her so she cannot manoeuvre any further without risking a wound. Her expression is the quintessence of derision; almost _daring _him to try something. Every pore on her face screams '_check mate_' and they haven't even begun.

Killian shoots her a vicious look before returning his attention over his shoulder to where Emma crouches on her hands and knees, eyes rimmed by red as she coughs and splutters.

Slowly, he turns back to the Snow Queen and, murderously, growls, "What did you do?"

Her lips twist higher and higher, the corners of her mouth digging deeper into her cheeks, spreading wider so it is the leer of a mad woman. Eyes flickering up from the blade at her neck to the man wielding it, she tilts her head.

"You do recall the night I punished you for your imprudence?" she asks, and he nods curtly, "Well, as you should be well aware by now, I'm quite the fan of multitasking and I thought I would seize the opportunity Emma provided me when I stole her away for that brief little encounter."

Behind him, he hears the blonde in question grumble, "What the hell?"

The Snow Queen's eyes fixate on Emma, manic and wide when she tells her in a voice redolent of sweet-smelling acid, "I _linked_ us. Anything that happens to _me_, also happens to _you_ – and vice versa. It was quite simple really, binding us while your magic was neutralized."

Killian's cold and charred heart ceases to beat against his jagged ribs at the revelation, eyes drifting to the floor as the information settles over the room like a brisk fog. Gooseflesh erupts on his skin: it means they cannot destroy this woman without destroying Emma and they cannot restrain her using brute force (without hurting Emma) and they cannot simply lock her away (she could always hurt herself, and Emma in the process).

_Check mate indeed._

And the more he thinks about this, the more guilt slams into him hard because, inadvertently or not, he just hurt Emma. It isn't like the other times he's hurt her – when there was a physical sickness that he couldn't shake. This time it strikes deep, a needle being driven deep into his chest. The frost doesn't even begin to encroach on his emotions this time – the magic sticks close to his heart now and solidifies there in a futile attempt to barricade the warmth from penetrating any deeper.

"But you almost let me drown!" Emma cries incredulously, drawing him from his thoughts.

The Snow Queen merely chuckles, swinging her gaze between the pirate and the princess like a pendulum, "It was a calculated risk. I don't make the mistake of underestimating people," she glances deliberately at Killian, "nor the lengths they will go to _salvage_ love."

The pun is not lost on either of them and so it comes to no one's surprise when they growl at the same time. Killian reaffirms his grip on his blade, shuffling closer, "You conniving –"

Before he can do anything else, she is leaning forward so the sharp edge of his blade is pressed precariously against the gentle skin of her neck. Any further and blood will be drawn, and she _knows _it. She watches his expression morph with deranged delight; moving quickly between anger and worry and hesitation and _anger_ before resting on jaw-locking restraint.

The muscles in his face twitch with the self-control it takes to retract the sword until there is a decent amount of space between the Snow Queen and his weapon. Her eyes flash in the harsh light of her domain, whispering words that echo around the high ceilings – she doesn't need to yell, whether by magic or by acoustics, her voice just seems to travel of its own accord.

She leans close, close enough that he can see the whites of her eyes and feel the chill of her breath again, "Go on, dear. Do your worst. You'll only be hurting her." The Snow Queen pauses and cants her head towards Emma, taunting when she says, "Why do you think I did it? We both know no one's going to let her die. It's why I chose her… Really, you should be thanking me. It means I'm not a threat to her."

He's got to hand it to her, she's right. As much as his distaste for her multiplies with every second that passes, he feels the barest hint of relief that it is now in the best interests of the Snow Queen that Emma remain unharmed.

The Snow Queen's face darkens, her eyes boring directly into his – ice clashing with ice.

"_You_, on the other hand…"

He has no time at all to prepare for the way his body is jerked across the room, every bit of air escaping his lungs in a sharp whoosh as he snaps flat against the opposite wall – held paralyzed in place by an invisible grip. Distantly, as his head cracks against the ice and he feels the world spin, he hears Emma scream his name. But then his eyes are filled with the blurry sight of the Snow Queen's pale face.

"Forgiveness is not one of my natural virtues. I'm old fashioned that way," she says, and his blood curdles at the downright venomous whorl to her words. Even in his hazy state, he manages a scowl – his now sluggish mind struggling to reconcile the unanticipated turn of events. How did she even do that when she's supposed to be neutralized? They packed enough of the goddamn stuff to sedate the Dark One himself, let alone this snow-savvy bitch.

"Let him down!" Emma screeches from somewhere in front of him, his view blocked by the Snow Queen. The latter turns to look over her shoulder, voice gently condescending when she reprimands Emma.

"Or you'll what? Emma, sweetheart, you couldn't even keep me contained for five minutes – let alone stop me altogether."

That must trigger something in the blonde, because, in a voice that is partway between terrified and desperate, she yells, "You must have used a counter-curse or – or a protection spell or something, there's no way you can be using music right now – we _neutralized _you!" She says it like she's trying to convince herself; the prospect that this enemy is stronger than their first and last alternative far too frightening to confront. When the Snow Queen speaks again, she adopts a poor attempt at reassurance.

"You did neutralize me, my dear, don't fret. But you also misjudged me and the unlimited power I now possess – thanks to _you_," she says, pride emanating from every minute deviation in her expression. The Snow Queen's smile grows (there is the barest hint of affection laced into the unbalanced calm).

"I linked us physically – but that also translates magically. If you're strong, I'm strong – why do you think I haven't attacked anyone over the past week. I've been culminating _your _power within me in tandem with my own." She shifts to the left so Killian can finally get a glimpse at Emma where she stands several feet away, face tense and hands clenched as she stares down the Snow Queen. The woman continues to speak, completely dismissing her prodigy's innate lack of reciprocation, "Together, we are boundless. Without me, you will be wasting your talents. Without me, you are a waste of potential – a waste of valuable space."

For some reason, those words are poignant enough to set off something deep and primal within Killian; especially when he watches Emma's hard facade falter to reveal the broken pieces beneath. Writhing against his invisible binds, he spits down at his captor, "You're wrong."

Emma's eyes snap up to him, and the Snow Queen whips her head around to face him. She narrows her eyes and tilts her head as he speaks.

"She doesn't need you, she has _never_ needed you. You_'_re the one who needs her, _you _are the one who is powerless without her, _you _are the one who has limited magic, _you _are the one who has limited resources. She doesn't need you to be boundless, you wretched bitch – she is boundless on her own."

There's a moment of silence where his words trickle down through the air.

Then there's pain, a sharp ache that starts in his midsection and unfolds outwards. Try as he might, he cannot stop the cry of pain that escapes his mouth. Scrunching his eyes shut, he can't see what is happening – but he can hear. His ears are fine-tuned to the two voices in the room and he tries to stay conscious. With everything he has, he staves off the way his body is betraying him to this recalcitrant magic.

"Whatever you're doing to him – stop it!"

"I cannot do that."

"Why?"

"I have no use for him other than to activate you. Hurting him clearly has a strong effect on you – I can _feel_ the magic thrumming to life in you. I can only imagine what will be unlocked when he dies – after all, loss begets strong emotion and strong emotion begets stronger magic. I'm doing you a favor by killing him."

He screams again when a fist confirms a purchase on his entrails and twists, ruthlessly knotting his insides so pain rockets through his system.

Emma's voice rises and he hears something like glass shattering in the distance, "_Stop it_!"

The pain disappears so quickly his muscles spasm, his teeth grinding together harshly. His head falls, chin against chest, and he can do nothing but listen as he regains the tattered vestiges of his strength. All he hears, the only unnerving sound that reaches his ears for several long seconds, is the Snow Queen's soft chortling.

Her footsteps echo around the room and he can see it in his mind, the way her opalescent dress ripples along the ground as she approaches Emma. He can just barely make out the sound of heavy breathing, and there is silence for a long moment – until there's not and he hears Emma's familiar voice wafting across the air to him. She sounds defeated, exhausted, _desperate._

"Please," she takes a deep, cavernous breath, "please, if you care about me at all – if you have _ever _cared about me, you'll let him go. I'll go with you, I'll – I'll do whatever you want just… for the love of god, stop hurting him. Please."

Forcing his head up, he stares at her – her emerald eyes drift up over the Snow Queen's shoulder towards him where they meet and hold. If only his breathing would slow, he could tell her how _stupid _that idea is. But he cannot, he can barely rasp a word out let alone yell with his chest still rising and falling like turbulent waves in a hurricane.

So he pours everything into his eyes, letting them burn into hers with the heat of a thousand suns as he wordlessly tells her, "_You are not going with her._" Her answering expression tells him she has already made her decision – an apology written in the creases of her cheeks.

Their moment is only interceded by the Snow Queen's voice as she circles Emma, trailing one long finger along her shoulders in what he estimates is supposed to be a comforting gesture. It comes nowhere close.

"Oh, Emma," she chides, "Of course I care about you – why do you think I've done all this? The only reason I have done any of this has been to save you and Elsa from yourselves. These people you trust with your hearts and your lives… precious commodities they will undoubtedly waste."

She gestures in his direction and Emma's jaw locks, "Just look at your pirate. Taking his memories was supposed to trigger your darkness but it didn't, it just made you _weak…_ and _sad… _it _broke _you. So I tried to make you angry using him as a vessel, making him _betray_ you, making him _lie_ to you, making him _endanger_ your family… but it was all still anger tainted by grief."

The Snow Queen returns her full attention to Emma and continues her route around the room, tone deepening as she explains the detailed lines of her plan like a venomous spider unravelling its own web, "I was planning to take your family and friends from you, for your own good, to _make _you see your power. And then _he_ betrayed me," she turns momentarily towards him, "and I realised I had a greater weapon at my disposal."

When her smile twists into a grin, his stomach drops into his feet and he swallows thickly. His gaze moves haphazardly between the two women, "The pure untainted bond between the two of you is… it has been enough to challenge not only my memory charm but its anchor. That glass in heart is failing, it's struggling – I can feel it now. And here you are… after everything." She stops directly in front of Emma, blocking her from his view and looking down at her. She pauses, tilts her head and, with tangible disappointment, speaks, "You still love him – and in spite of that pesky little mirror in his blackened, shrivelled excuse of a heart – he loves you. And we all know the indubitable destruction of love is the only way to truly make a person dark – ask that Evil Queen of yours."

"Please don't do this."

Killian winces at the way she begs for his life. His autonomy has returned to him, his breathing evening out enough that he doesn't have to fight the urge to give in to the exhaustion dragging down the ends of his eyelids. It is being rejected by the far more urgent need to escape, to live, to _keep his goddamn promise to Henry._

The Snow Queen turns, her cape sweeping around her, and starts a path toward him. There is murder in her eyes and a song in her voice when she apologises, none-too-sincerely, "Emma, my love, you will know powers the likes of which know no bounds. And one day, you will thank me for this." He can see her pulling back her arm, readying herself to reach into his chest.

She has one hand on his shoulder, holding him steady where her magic can't, and jerks her arm forward.

He closes his eyes – prepares for the pain, prepares to see his heart thumping in another person's clutches, prepares to watch his obscenely long life reduced to dust before his eyes. All he can think, in that moment, is how much he wishes he had been given enough time to remember Emma Swan.

(_Be careful what you wish for, they always say_.)

Nothing happens and, as he hears the Snow Queen stumble on the spot, a soft gasp filtering from her mouth, he feels relief. Until he opens his eyes; which is exactly when the panic slams into him with all the force of a tidal wave.

A deep red stain blossoms from a wound in the Snow Queen's midsection, crawling up the pure white gown and tinting it in an irreversible pattern. He knows what he will see long before he sees it, his heart already drumming a painful staccato against his ribs. Emma has propped herself up against one of the various elaborate tables, and there is a very long, very sharp icicle in her hands (there is a jagged stump rising up from the floor where she snapped it off its unsuspecting perch) – and it is coated in her blood.

His voice is ringing in his ears before he even realises he has cried out.

"_No_!"

The Snow Queen is unmoving for an extended second, until finally she touches the wound and moans. Her features distort into excruciating pain and a shocked sort of sadness. She turns, mouth hanging ajar, and staggers on the spot.

"…What have you done?"

Emma's voice catches in her throat on every word, no doubt a by-product of the wound that is already making her face damp with sweat as she fights to stay standing, using the tabletop as a support. But she's waning, and he can see it in the way her muscles shake on every inhale.

"Regina and I found something interesting while we were looking for a way to bring him back," she manages to say, tilting her head down so she can level the Snow Queen with a condescending sneer, "Apparently – your weakness… the only… the only thing you cannot heal is your own element… you can't heal _this_ because _you _technically made the weapon… bet you didn't see that coming." She lifts the icicle weakly and, as her arm drops back down, it falls from her grip and rolls across the crystalline floor – leaving a scarlet smear in its wake.

As the Snow Queen falls to her knees on another soft moan of pain, the magic restraining Killian dissipates entirely and he drops through the air like a steel weight. His legs give out when he lands, but he manages to force himself into a crouching position in time to see Emma adopt a poor excuse for a smile.

"Check mate, bitch."

Then she falls, and it catalyses every fissure in his chest to crack simultaneously open.

Killian's hook and fingernails carve into the ice floor as something white, and blinding, and incomprehensibly powerful passes through him. It _hurts_, his heart seizing as something inside him begins to yawn wide open, forcing apart the jaws clamping down on that locked box until it opens wide enough for everything to pour out in a disorienting series of images and colours and _feelings._

His eyes are shut so tight he can feel tears pooling there, his hand and the blunt edge of his hook going to the sides of his face and holding steady as he is overcome with everything.

_She stands over him, golden sunlight haloing her face as he sees her for the first time and his heart swoops traitorously in his chest._

_They navigate a beanstalk that spans up into the heavens, he bandages her hand, she leaves him burnt and betrayed. _

_They meet again at a cell, harsh words are exchanged, he ignores the tether that tugs on his chest when he turns and leaves. _

_They battle at a portal, he throws the fight, drops and watches with fear clogging his throat as Cora nearly kills her – but she survives, and he doesn't want to put a name on the feeling that overcomes him when she does._

_Their paths cross once again on the side of a rain-dampened road. She sits at his side on a hospital bed; the words 'I'd pick you,' rattle around his head for days._

Things begin to speed up now, coming in faster flashes, the recollections returning with greater urgency and he swears he is on the verge of heart palpitations.

_They are in Granny's Diner; she stares into his soul with branding eyes pleading with him to join them (join _her_). He is on the verge of a new horizon but he cannot disappear with her name on his lips and her face in his head – he comes back only to leave again with them in tow, their destination the one place he swore he'd never return: Neverland._

_They are searching for her son, he is learning her but they are mere morsels and he wants the entire compendium of everything she is, everything she ever has been and everything she ever will be. His want broadens as the days pass, deepens as their eyes linger, stretches the breadth of his rotten old heart until it broaches something bigger. It's not until she's matching him move for move, mouths fused together as she clutches his lapels, that he realises just how far he's let himself fall._

_They stand in a cave, his voice echoes._

_They stand at a town line, her eyes glisten._

_He stands on the Jolly Roger, his hand flat against the mast, apologising under his breath to the only home he's ever known as he leaves it for a chance at seeing her (it is a risk he is willing to make)._

_He stands at her door and the second his eyes land on her, it is like seeing a sunrise for the first time, like watching the dawn of a new day over calm waters, like breathing again – and he knows it in the deepest parts of his soul that it was all worth it. _

_They are outside a police station and when she finally recognises him, eyes blown wide with recognition, he cannot refrain from smiling._

_They are in her New York apartment when she calls him Killian for the first time. He maintains a neutral façade but his heart thunders as the vowels and consonants tumble over her lips; he relishes in it every single time over the following weeks._

_They are breathing the same cold air, surrounded by muted greenery as she gapes up at him, silently questioning his resolve to reassure her that her heart may be damaged but it functions perfectly well._

_He is at the docks, and he swears on her name because she is the last thing of value he has left to swear on. He is cursed and he is tormented and she is telling him she is ready to forget about the past and their timing has always been atrocious._

_They are in a boathouse, and she no longer trusts him._

_There is water everywhere, and then he is choking, spluttering, breathing, looking up at her as realisation settles over him like a cold shower and he can only manage one terrified question – her expression is all the answer he needs._

_They are in another time, another place, another realm – he followed her here, would follow her anywhere she travelled. She is kissing him, but not kissing _him_ and it is the closest thing to jealous rage he has ever felt because that man does not deserve the infinite treasure that is Emma Swan. _

_They are dancing and she is beautiful and she is happy and, just for a moment, she is his._

_They stand atop a castle spire, watching through a window as an inferno erupts and she clings to him as roughly as he clings to her: she might be gone from him in moments and he will not let go until she is air beneath his fingertips (and even then, he will not let go)._

_They are in a vault, her eyes glitter with unshed tears and self-doubts and it stabs his heart with startling precision to see her so unable to see her own greatness. But then she is grinning, wielding a wand that glows as brightly as her smile._

_There is a chill in the air outside Granny's, the fairy lights glowing as she tells him he is a hero, asks him how he found her, asks him what he traded. Her face shifts to something soft and pliable and warm when he tells her; and when she leans in to press her lips to his, he comes to the inevitable conclusion that he would endure it all again in a heartbeat if it meant having her in this moment._

From there, things become blurred: snow monsters, pilfered moments, precious kisses, lingering glances, shared memories, nightmares, fears, likes and dislikes. When it stops, when everything is a roiling mass in his mind and heart, he drags himself up to his knees until the storm calms and the sky of his eyes clears.

And he _remembers._

It's devastating and liberating – it's everything.

For a moment he forgets what has happened. There is a blissful second where he merely revels in the return of his memories, in the return of his world to its rightful angle upon the axis of his perception.

Then, of course, the world that has just righted itself comes crashing down.

Emma is propped up against the chaise, breathing heavily, eyes fluttering as the blood seeps from her wound to stain her shirt. Her shaking hands are tinged red, held precariously over her stomach. Killian's blood freezes in his veins, only one word coming to mind.

_No._

Scrambling up from his spot, he flies across the room, so fast he skids when he drops to his knees beside her to, as smoothly as possible, scoop her into his arms.

8888

It hurts more than she thought it would – but then, she's never been stabbed before. Sure, she's suffered bruises and scrapes and even the occasional dislocated limb from her time as a bail bondsperson. But none of that compares to this inferno searing her abdomen every time she breathes.

Comfort is nigh impossible, even when she finally falls to the ground and pushes herself onto her side, curling up and closing her eyes. The foetal position lessens the pain, compacts the hurt in a small ball that she carries close to her. Her shirt sticks to the skin of her stomach, her blood leaking onto the icy ground in a stark pool of red; seeing it, her eyes water because it's her life (and it's leaving her).

She wishes several things as she sits there, waiting for death to come – she thinks about Henry (he will be so angry with her for this), about her parents (they will break because of this), about Killian (he will hate himself because of this). Yet, as much as regrets dying, she does not regret saving the town or her friends or her family or _him_. She will never regret saving the people she loves.

The sound of footsteps slapping the hard ice floor snaps her to attention and she tilts her head towards the source just in time to watch Killian fall to his knees at her side, shuffling until she is cradled in her lap. His eyes are frantic as they drink in the sight of her, his hand and hook hovering over the wound as he growls, "What did you do? _Emma_, what have you done?"

He pulls her closer, a twinge of pain making her wince as she gathers enough strength to answer him, "Sh-she was going t-t-to use me against every-one… I s-saved everyone-n."

Anger, hot and fresh, distorts his features and his voice is deliberately quiet when he hisses, "I thought I bloody well told you not to save everyone at your life's risk! I told you to take caution!" Her automatic response dies in her throat when she finally registers what he said. That specific phrase, that exact demand… it sends firecrackers exploding in the back of her mind, her heart stuttering as realisation forces her eyes to widen. The memory is still vivid, that last day with him branded into her head.

_"Promise me you'll take caution with this woman. Promise me you won't make any irrational decisions just to secure her defeat… You're the saviour but that doesn't mean you have to save everyone at your life's risk"_

It was a moment enveloped in a cold alley, his stuttered words pervading the air with an intangible warmth before he pressed her against a wall and kissed her for what she had thought, for a long time, was the last time. Several seconds pass where she studies his face, stares up at him and traces the softened features, the familiar eyes, the gentle touch; _it's him. _

Emma's lips twitch up and apart, the pain in her midsection not remotely strong enough to dampen the respite of this moment.

"W-wait – you reme-me-member?" she whispers, reaching up to touch his jaw (part of her is terrified that this is a hallucination, her body's way of lulling her into death). Her fingers brush his skin and he manages a poor impersonation of a smile, leaning down to press his forehead to hers.

"Aye, love, I remember."

She curls further into his embrace, eyes glittering with a mixture of grief and contentment when he pulls back. Tilting her head into his hand, Emma murmurs, "H-how?"

He shakes his head rigorously, "I don't know," then his face drops, shoulders pulling forward as he scrunches his eyes shut and grinds between clenched teeth, "Gods Emma, I'm so sorry –"

"Wasn' you-your f-fault-t," she interrupts, firmly despite her predicament. His thumb swipes her cheek as he retorts.

"Yes it was –"

"D-don't do – do that…" Emma frowns, finding his wrist and clutching it as tightly as she can manage. She holds his eyes intensely, reassuring him in a voice that drops out with her inability to properly breathe, "I underst… I under…" The words won't form and her eyes drift shut, a heavy weight smothering her so she feels as though she is being dragged into cold, calm water. It's oddly similar to when she was in the hull of the sinking boat (only this time, she isn't desperately trying to escape her fate – this time, she has accepted the inevitable conclusion). Her wound doesn't hurt as much now. She thinks, perhaps, dying isn't so bad -

"Hey! Stay with me – eyes open, Swan," Killian jerks her roughly awake and she bites her lip to withhold the cry of pain that wants to erupt from her. He uses his good hand to hold her jaw and manoeuvre it so she's looking directly at him, "Do you hear me? I'll be damned if you're going to die before I can atone for these past weeks."

"S'cold," she mutters incoherently in response, eyes dropping shut.

He shakes her again, gentler this time, and breathes against her cheek, "I know, love, I know."

Forcing herself to stay conscious, she uses the last vestiges of her strength to watch him. She has waited for him to come back to her for so long, and she will revel in the golden glory of these stolen seconds while she can. In a word, it is bittersweet. When she had envisioned the moment he returned, it hadn't been on the cold floor of the Snow Queen's lair with a mortal wound and a deathly fate.

She can feel the cold claim finding an anchor in her body; the frigid grip of death on the precipice of her being, tendrils of darkness coiling out across her skin.

Emma holds onto his wrist again.

"I'm sorry, Killian."

His eyes snap to hers and he shakes his head, "I know it's cold right now, but please just hold on. You've done this before," he looks like he's searching for something and, when he finds it, his eyes are wild as they meet hers in a desperate bid for hope, "Remember when Elsa accidentally trapped you in that cave? You held on then. You can do it again."

She smiles sadly (barely a smile, more of a grimace), "Y-you and I b-b-both know that was – that was d-different, Killian."

There is anger bubbling beneath the surface of this broken man. His grip tightens, and the way he stares at her; she is tempted to believe he thinks he can ward off the hand of death with his willpower alone. That, however, is simply not true.

"No, I refuse to believe that," he growls, an idea occurring to him as his gaze jumps hopefully between the sickening wound and her pale face, "You can heal yourself."

Shaking her head is impossible with the dense exhaustion that plagues her, so she is forced to use words that clog her throat and struggle to escape. She chokes on them and everything they denote, because telling this man not to hope causes her more agony than any icicle could ever inflict.

"N-no, I can't."

His reassuring expression does nothing but drive daggers through her heart, especially when he says, in that voice woven from unwavering faith, "Yes you can, you've been training with Regina, haven't you? You're magic is strong Emma, so strong the Snow Queen wanted to use it, you can –"

"No, y-you don't get it. If – if I heal m-myself, I'll h-h-heal _her_," she nods weakly in the direction of the Snow Queen, shivering on the ground a few feet from her as she too begrudgingly waits for death. Emma catches his gaze again, an apology written across her crumpled, ashen face, determination carved into her brow. "The only w-way she surv-survives is if I h-h-heal myself because sh-she can't do – do it."

This time, it is undeniably anger that darkens his eyes (but there is anguish laced into it).

"Emma, _no_ –"

"I'm sorry –"

"_Emma."_

_"_I'm so sorry –"

His voice breaks, "Please don't do this. You don't have to do this. She's not worth it." His hand is trailing down her jaw, tracing the muscles in her neck, splaying flat against her breastbone where he can surely feel her heart still sluggishly beating. If there is one thing she wants more in this world than to live, it is for him to _know _that she isn't doing this because of some convoluted saviour complex; although that is still a large part of it.

The grin that drags her lips apart is genuine.

"She's not. But _you _are."

Everything fades out at a rapid pace after that, the world fragmenting, disintegrating, falling between her fingertips. The last thing she sees is the look of realisation on his face. Distantly, she thinks it's a shame that the last image she has of his face is one of anguish deeper and greater and stronger than anything she's ever seen in her life.

* * *

**I can already feel your hatred - why don't you express it in a review? (P.S Before you all bite my head off, there is still one part left!)**


	7. Part Six: Departures and Arrivals

**I hope you all had a fantastic Christmas and I just wanted to say thank you _so_ much for all of your reviews and follows and favourites and messages and just general support! We're coming to the end - and this is it. This is the last part of this ****ficlet. I really hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it and, for the millionth time, _thank you_.**

**I really tried to stay true to their characters and hopefully you agree with their reactions to this entire shit-storm finally (kind of) blowing over. Heads up: if you thought the angst was over as of the previous update - oh ho ho you've got another thing coming. And I hope it all makes sense. Please say it makes sense.**

**(I'm not at all freaking out over concluding this)**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**Part Six: Departures and Arrivals**

When Killian was seven years old, his father abandoned him.

He can still vividly recall the moment the awful realisation dawned on him, settling on his skin and burrowing into the marrow of his bones with an inveterate ache. The stale sheets, the billowing curtains and morning sun, the empty bed – it's all carved painfully into his memory. Irremovable. A scar that will never truly heal, irrespective of the care and attention he tends it.

More than any of that though, more than the salty smell of the sea and the sharp bite of the cold wintry air, he remembers the stillness. He will never manage to forget, as it finally occurred to him (the utter finality of his father's abrupt departure), how _quiet_ it was. How eerily still the air became as he stared at the empty space and tried to piece together the irreparably fractured shards of his youthful naiveté.

Since then, he's come to define his losses by the depth of the silence that follows.

In the minutes that charted his brother's body being submitted to the sea, he heard nothing but the gentle wind and the lapping waves coaxing his only consistent anchor into hopeless oblivion. In the transient moment when Milah's heart was still crumbling, and her breath was a mere gasp for life, her demise had resonated in his chest, in his head, in his very soul – but never in his ears. Her stuttered breaths had been the only soundtrack, echoing for days after the ship was painfully empty of her presence.

Yet, as Emma's eyes flutter closed and he _feels _her life draining out of her (fine sand falling between helpless fingers), the silence is beyond deafening.

Everything fades out, everything except her lids slowly shuttering closed despite his fervent verbal and physical pleas for her to stay with him, to hold on – shaking her with trembling fingers, his voice rising slowly from its initial pathetic begging. For a long second, he just stares at her face; slack, pale, and peaceful. She could be sleeping if it weren't for the hot blood staining his hands and shirt as he crushes her against him and roars something thunderous into the crevice of her neck.

When he pulls back, he drinks in the shape of her face. His gaze trails along her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. They linger there, his heart racing as he tries to reconcile the fierce woman he knows with this macabre depiction. It's impossible to do; all he achieves is magnifying the throbbing between his ribs tenfold.

Which is precisely when the panic slams into him and he screams into the cavernous room, "Somebody help! Regina! Gold!"

Distantly, he can just make out the sound of their magical attempts to tear down the thick ice that obstructs the entrance passage.

There's a chaotic buzzing in his veins that drinks up the last vestiges of his attention, a tether around his heart that tightens so he feels a physical _pull_ towards her limp figure. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a suggestion is voiced – one that sends his heart faltering, the world screeching to a halt on its axis.

It's impossible.

He's tried it before and it didn't work. Not to mention these past weeks have irreversibly damaged what little chance there ever may have been.

But it's the only chance he has, a dithering thread hanging loose amidst a cluster of missed opportunities.

Icy debris explodes behind him, several chunks of it hitting his back when he crouches to shield Emma from the airborne rubble. He hears people running towards him, their footsteps loud against the previously silent backdrop. But he cannot focus on them, not when he knows there is no time to waste. He's already wasted too much time just contemplating it.

Pushing some hair out of her face, he dips his head to kiss her.

Their lips brush, gently – tentatively. At first, there is nothing but heavy footfalls slapping an icy floor, panting breaths and worried questions piercing his head. Disappointment and grief clutch at his heart. Surely, it is breaking in tandem with his soul, cracks webbing out to encompass his entire being until he's certain that he'll shatter.

Then, of course, _everything_ shatters. Clutching Emma tighter against him, he keeps his mouth moulded firmly to hers, pressing desperately in the hopes that she will reciprocate. For the second time that day, a blinding white light sears Killian's eyes, a light breeze rushing out from where their lips are touching.

Hope twines effortlessly around his hammering heart in place of the anguish.

Pulling back, he expects to find sparkling green eyes and a buoyant smile that's been dormant for far too long.

Instead, he's met with the startling image of Emma's untouched face. Her eyes are still closed, her jaw still slack, _her blood still seeping out at a tortuously unstoppable pace. _

"_No_," Killian breathes, cupping her face and tilting it towards him, "No, no, _no_!"

He could have sworn it worked.

He feels a presence at his back just before the others gather around them. David swoops down the instant he sees his daughter, his dusty blue eyes electric as they take in her dilapidated state.

"What happened?" he asks, gaze darting up to the man opposite him, "I thought you…" His voice drifts off and Killian merely shakes his head, looking over his shoulder with blurry eyes when he feels two more people crouch beside him. Regina is on his right and she assesses Emma quickly, a morbid expression settling over her typically stoic features.

"There's no time. I can heal her but it will be up to her to wake up – the Snow Queen did some serious damage," she tells them, rubbing her hands together. He's about to correct her as to the circumstances of Emma's predicament, but there's a far more pressing matter in need of their attention – namely, the blonde woman bleeding out in his arms. David beats him to the punch before he can utter a thing, nodding a wordless assent to the Queen who instantly places her hands over the wound.

He _should_ tell them what saving Emma entails.

He _should _tell them that this is what Emma wanted – that Emma did this to herself for their benefit.

He _should_ tell them Emma is connected to the Snow Queen – that saving her ultimately means saving their enemy and reigniting the vicious flame that had threatened to consume the entire town.

But really, what will that do? What other option is there?

Let Emma _die_?

The bile that rises in his throat at the idea of a world without her is enough of an affirmation that he's doing the right thing. They'll figure out what to do about the Snow Queen once Emma is safe. They may hate him for it, _she _may hate him for it – he's well aware of her agency and disdain for having her decisions ignored. But this is her life and he'll be damned if he lets her trade it for the defeat of the infernal woman behind them.

As Regina's pale hands hover over the damage, a pale glow begins to pulsate from her delicate fingers, twisting out to encompass the shredded skin and torn muscle. The white light grows to shroud the expanse of her injury, ebbing one final time before it disappears to reveal flawless skin under the blood-stained remnants of her shirt.

Seconds pass where they search for any signs of life. He's sure he will leave bruises on her skin with the way he's holding her. With bated breath, they watch and they wait.

Then a shallow, nearly inaudible inhale pushes Emma's chest out fractionally as she begins to breathe at a short, rapid pace. The tension snaps and Killian lets his forehead fall against hers as he exhales the heaviest sigh of relief he's ever endured in his life. It clogs his chest and rattles in his throat, a reprieve unlike any other.

Her eyes are still closed, she is undeniably unconscious – but she is _alive_.

She's still _alive._

Which means…

Killian's eyes snap open, heat suddenly burning to life in the cockles of his soul.

He looks to Regina, "Do you have the remaining neutralising dust?" He barely recognises his own voice. Evidently, so does she. Looking slightly taken aback, she nods and pulls the vial in question from her jacket pocket.

Offering no explanation, he gently shifts Emma over to be cradled by her more than eager parents as he stands and, snatching away the glass container, strides towards the Snow Queen's crumpled figure.

He may not be able to physically hurt the woman but he can restrain her before she attempts to escape. He will leave his physical retaliation for later, when the enchantment connecting her to Emma is broken. For now, subduing her magic will be enough to stop her without hurting Emma.

"What are you doing?" Regina demands haughtily, snapping up and following him across the space.

"Finishing things before they can start again," he growls murderously, jerking away from her grip and kneeling beside the Snow Queen. He prepares to be propelled back, to meet some kind of resistance as he clutches her lace-covered shoulder and yanks her roughly onto her back. Instead, the Snow Queen sags against his hand, falling onto the floor with a muffled thump.

Her glazed eyes are locked onto some distant thing.

Her pristine dress is stained by blood; the sullied flesh beneath still visibly mangled.

Killian stiffens; open flask of neutralising dust still in hand as he regards her and struggles to find an explanation.

"What the hell is going on, Hook?" Regina demands again, her piercing gaze moving rapidly between him and the motionless woman beneath him. He stares at the dead Snow Queen for an undefinable amount of time, dumbfounded into silence as he recounts the previous events and comes up empty.

"Hook."

If Emma is alive, and she most definitely is, then so should the Snow Queen – the woman had made it very clear just what her curse had entailed. They were _bound _in every sense of the word.

"_Hook_!"

He still doesn't face her but he stands, fingers wrapped tightly around the small glass bottle.

"Is she dead?" he mumbles with a frown.

Regina narrows her eyes at him, "_What_?"

Finally, he twists in her direction, completely serious when he demands in a tone broaching no room for debate, "Is she _dead_?"

After several seconds of simply staring at each other, she (surprisingly) concedes and turns her attention to the Snow Queen. She opens one of her palms and points it in the direction of the body, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. Her brows pull together and she clenches her fist, dropping it when she turns to Killian with a shrug, "Yeah. She's definitely dead. She's not faking it."

"That doesn't make sense," he mutters, mostly to himself.

Again, he glances over his shoulder to where Emma is breathing softly in her parents' arms. Gold is saying something about getting them to the hospital as swiftly as possible so Dr. Whale can do his own medical examination.

Regina's fingers curl around his elbow and jerk him around to face her.

"Hook, _what _is going on?" she commands, authority ringing in her tone.

Numbly, he tells her, "She bound herself to Emma – the Snow Queen… she, uh – she performed a spell that allowed her to physically and magically link herself to Emma when she abducted her. It's why she left Emma alone all week. She wanted to poach as much power from her as she could. She was going to use her against us – break her and then turn her loose. The Snow Queen was going to kill me to do it and then she…"

Recognition flashes in Regina's deep brown eyes and she looks slowly from the pallid woman's slumped figure to where Emma is resting. Realisation trickles into her features and, with wide eyes, she stares back at Killian.

The woman is almost talking to herself when she says, "She sacrificed herself."

She refocuses on Killian and frowns, "But how is _she_ dead and – " Regina cuts herself off, another wave of understanding visibly crashing over her and swallowing the rest of her sentence. A soft knowing simper makes its way across her face and he finds something about that irritable, given the circumstances.

"What?" he snaps.

Before she can say a word, Gold is beckoning them over. Dismissing him and the questions he still poses, Regina strides efficiently towards the group and he follows. One moment, they're in the cave – the next, purple smoke is dissipating from the air around them and they're standing in the hospital lobby.

The nurses squeak in fright but quickly register that something is wrong. As some disperse to fetch the doctors and others start to gravitate towards Emma's limp (but breathing) form, Killian tries to pull Regina aside. Somehow, though, the woman slips out of his grasp. Scanning the waiting room, now a hive of activity, he scowls when he does not find her. She must have left to... do whatever it is she does.

Then Emma is being lifted onto a bed and wheeled away and he can't help but follow, sidling up to her father as they walk along after it through the sterile maze.

8888

David finds him and tells him she is in a room, and that Dr. Whale has given her the all clear. They walk together in silence until they reach it and he follows him through the door with shuttered blinds.

Inside, he finds Emma lying on a white metal-wired bed, machines and wires strapped to her arms and chest, beeping periodically as they monitor her health. He swallows down the thickness in his throat when he sees that.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it though, because Regina walks in shortly after him.

Instantly he turns on her, face hard as he says, "What do you know that I don't?"

"Calm down, Captain," she derides, walking smoothly over to the furthest side of Emma's bed, taking up position at effectively the front of their little congregation. Mary Margaret and David exchange curious glances.

"What do you mean? What's going on?" Mary Margaret asks from her perch at Emma's bedside, her soft hands still clasped tightly around her daughter's fragile ones.

"Why don't you regale us with what happened first, Hook?" Regina says. He wants to growl at her, demand that she tell him what's going on, to explain why Emma is alive and the Snow Queen is not. But the woman is genuine in her inquiry and he realises that he hasn't actually explained what happened in the caves, not to a satisfying extent – they don't even know about the return of his memories yet.

"Hook?" David prompts, watching him carefully.

Taking a long bone-weary breath, he explains. He tells them about the linking enchantment, tells them about the Snow Queen's diatribe wherein she arrogantly expounded her plans for them all, tells them how he was on the precipice of death when Emma plunged the icicle into her own flesh, tells them how his memories returned in quick succession. His words begin to fail him after that; he struggles to chronicle trying to convince her to heal herself and altogether refuses to describe their failed kiss. He doesn't need to though. They all saw it firsthand when they were running in.

As his words finally drift off, his eyes stay locked on Emma – he doesn't want to know what they think of him now that they know he was helpless to save her from herself. David's hand is surprisingly warm on his shoulder, voice low and comforting.

"We're glad you're back," he tells him. In his periphery, he notes the gentle attempt at a smile.

However, his 'return' is not their most important concern. Later, he will deal with the ramifications of the past week and his subsequent behaviour. Right now, he needs Regina to explain herself.

She still has her eyes fixed on him when he looks up at her, patience waning thin.

"That's everything. Now, what do you know?" he grinds out.

Regina stares straight back at him, "When you kissed her, it appeared to work – correct?"

He nods stiffly.

"But it didn't. She was still injured until _you_ used your magic to –"

"Actually," she interrupts with a finger raised, "It _did _work." Everyone in the room gapes at her and she nods, "True love cannot cure any and all ailments and certainly not self-inflicted physical injuries. But it _can_ break curses – that is its specialty, that is where its power resides."

Regina catches Killian's gaze and holds it meaningfully, "When you kissed her, she was still linked to the Snow Queen. However, you broke that enchantment and made it possible for me to save her without saving the Snow Queen. So yes, your kiss actually _did_ work."

His chest tightens at the notion and he continues to stare. After several seconds, he feels some of the eyes in the room turn in his direction. Heart beating heavily against his ribcage, he struggles to string together some kind of coherent response to the simple concept that his feelings are reciprocated (even after all of the damage he's done).

"It… are you _sure_?" he finally asks, inexplicably breathless.

Regina nods and his eyes drift from her face to Emma's again.

A rush of emotion strikes him deep in the crevices of his chest and he punches down the urge to crumble to the floor in a puddle of reprieve. Emma's not exactly alive yet, and she's certainly not out of the woods. As Regina continues explaining, her physical trauma was so severe that whilst the magic had tangibly healed it, her body's natural response is still in play; conservation of energy.

She is essentially in a coma until her body decides to wake up of its own accord. Nothing can induce that, it has to be of her own volition.

All they can do now is wait.

8888

He wakes up to the now familiar sound of the machines that monitor her. Peering at the heavily curtained window, he sees the beginnings of pale light streaming in and quickly deduces that it must be morning. It's safe to assume the nurses left him undisturbed overnight, since he does not recall being instructed to leave.

Parched and heavy-headed, he rubs his eyes roughly and stands. With one last lingering glance in her direction, he leaves the room in search of the generously named coffee machine. Mary Margaret appears at his side just as he's stirring the boiling watered-down contents, cup nestled deftly in the curve of his hook.

"Hi," Emma's mother greets, offering a half-hearted smile.

Killian's returning expression is tight and insincere. His interactions with the woman have never been particularly warm; her distinct lack of affinity for him has always been obvious. Yet now, she peers up at him with eyes the same colour as Emma's and he swears he sees something akin to affection and sympathy in their jade depths.

"She'll wake up, you know."

Her reassurance is hollow and he merely nods, voice flimsy and weak as he replies, "I'm sure she will, milady. All the more reason I should return to her room –"

"I know you hate yourself right now," she interrupts him brazenly, stunning him to silence, "And I know you blame yourself for what happened to her."

For a second he thinks she's going to affirm that statement with a condemnation. Then, she reaches out to place a small hand on his shoulder – the weight of it soothing him in a strange way. If the feeling resembles the same one he used to derive from his own mother's touch, he doesn't comment (though it certainly resonates).

Mary Margaret cants her head to the side, "But you should know that we _don't. _Blame you, that is. What happened wasn't your fault; nothing that's happened in the past couple of weeks has been your fault. We know that and… She knows it too. And she won't blame you… and I just though you should know that if you need to talk…" Her voice drifts off, the offer written across her open face for him to see.

Momentarily stunned, he just stares at the petite woman before him.

Eventually, her words sink in and he feels the deep creases in his face soften and retract. With a thick swallow, he forces himself to nod, incapable of grasping the sudden shift in their relationship – but also grateful. So grateful.

"Thank you," he croaks.

Mary Margaret squeezes his shoulder once and drops her hand, "No problem, Killian."

8888

Floating on a bed of water – that's what it feels like to die. Or at least, that's what she assumes since that's the only way she can describe what she's experiencing. Strangely enough, it is just as peaceful as she always suspected it would be. Although that may just be because she felt safe when the world faded away; content and warm and _safe _in his arms despite the fatal wound leeching the last relics of life from her body.

Her coherency astounds her. The fact that she can even remember the events leading to this strange, semi-conscious state is perplexing. Yet she doesn't question it, just accepts it.

She figures this will all be a lot less painful if she just accepts her fate.

After all, it means her family will be safe and _that_, in her mind, is all that truly matters – it is the only thing that bears weight where the balance between life and death is concerned. So she doesn't fight against the pull of the water as it laps over her skin in icy rivulets, slowly submerging her.

Soon, she will drown in it.

But suddenly, there is warmth. It spikes at her lips, spreading and unfolding to encompass her entire body. A thin film lifts from her limbs, and she can't say how she knows but she just _knows _it's the linking spell. Perhaps it is because of the magic in her veins that hums in recognition at the dearly departed enchantment. Or maybe it is the sudden onset of power, rushing back into her limbs as though it's snapping back after being stretched out across a wide space. Hell, it could just be the unexplainable feeling of singularity.

But she knows.

She just _knows_.

She cannot believe she didn't notice it before. Especially now, as a feeling like a heavy tether being severed crashes over her, and now she can _move_. Her autonomy is hers to control, her magic hers to employ and manipulate. Unfortunately, that elation doesn't last long.

Three things occur to her all at once.

Firstly, if the spell has been retracted, she doesn't have to die.

Secondly, if these waters keep climbing, she _will_ die.

And lastly: she is unequivocally on the brink of death.

Instantly she begins to thrash against the soft waves, dragging herself up, fighting the icy water lapping at her skin with fierce desperation. At first, nothing happens and she just keeps sinking below the black swells. Then, however, it begins to work. Faces flash in her mind's eye and she pushes herself further, pushes until there is nothing but air and heat and light, blinding light, monotonous beeping, aching pain in every strained muscle and exposed nerve. Her eyelids snap open and she gasps, jolting up and hissing when she feels a stinging sensation in sporadic sections across her body.

The room is sterile and pale and the discomfort blossoms from needles and subsequent wires attached to her arms.

Her hospital room is shrouded in darkness, the curtains closed so as to keep out all light. The material cannot hide the thin beams of sunlight that filter down onto the linoleum floor though, and she frowns as she gathers her bearings.

Physically, other than a twinge of exhaustion, she feels fine. She kicks back the hospital blanket and pulls back her gown to inspect her body but there's nothing – not even a scar where she'd thrust the icicle into her abdomen. The skin on her stomach isn't even puckered. In fact, it almost looks smoother than it did before.

She frowns, studying the rest of her body. And when she finds nothing, she gently pulls off the wires and extracts the needles and rips away the stickers. The machines around her protest furiously but she needs to get up, she needs to see what happened, see if they truly managed to defeat the Snow Queen. If she did, in fact, manage to miraculously salvage the lives of her family and friends.

Their foe's twisted plan still echoes around Emma's head and she thinks she'll pass out if she finds out she failed.

Without warning, nurses pour into the room – her violently screeching monitors obviously having set off some kind of alarm system.

"Miss Swan," one of them says, clearly pleased to see her awake but nonetheless stern, "We're glad you're awake but you really should rest."

"I'm fine," Emma replies, only half-annoyed.

"At least wait for a doctor to examine you," another one adds, moving forward to usher Emma towards the bed. She digs her feet in and shakes her head, her inherited stubborn streak rising up to perpetuate its namesake.

"But there's nothing _wrong_ with me –"

"Swan?"

Everyone in the room stops to look at the newcomer, but she already knows who it is. That voice has something swooping low in her gut, from shock or joy she isn't sure which. The nurses part enough for her to see him, standing in the doorway with startlingly wide blue eyes – like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. His hair is a mess, like he's been pulling at it nervously, and his shirt is crumpled and creased, like he's slept in it.

The last time she saw him, his face had morphed into the most poignant expression she's ever seen him wear. That alone propels her forward, determined to erase it from her memory.

She shrugs off the nurses' hands and strides towards him without further preamble, launching herself at him when she's close enough. She buries her nose in his neck and breathes deeply, relishing in the way he finally _finally _returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her with equal fervour.

"You're awake," he mumbles brokenly against her shoulder, and she sobs a laugh.

"Yeah. And you remember."

"Aye."

He squeezes her tighter and it's only then that she realises he is shaking, small tremors running through his torso and down his arms. They stay standing like that for a long time, long enough that the nurses have to cough to get their attention. Again, one of them tells her she needs to lie down, but she won't let go of him.

To be fair, he doesn't release her either.

He's drinking in her presence like he's trying to commit every infinitesimal fraction of this moment to memory. The nurses' voices die out when her parents appear behind Killian, their faces radiating joy as she finally catches sight of them. A wide grin breaks across her lips and she reluctantly withdraws from Killian to embrace David and Mary Margaret. Then Henry comes into the room and traitorous tears pool in Emma's eyes.

Unfettered joy grips her and she momentarily forgets about the Snow Queen's undisclosed state.

8888

When the nurses finally do coerce her back into the bed where she waits impatiently for a doctor to discharge her, she remembers. With wide eyes, she snaps her gaze in their direction and asks, "What happened to the Snow Queen?"

Henry nods eagerly, "You defeated her, Mom!"

In her peripheral vision, Emma sees Killian wince at the inadvertent dismissal of just _what _defeating her had necessitated. Her son makes it sound as though she dispatched the woman brandishing a sword the whole time. It occurs to her that they may not have told Henry what happened (sacrificial suicide is a hard thing to swallow for a pre-teen boy) so, internally swatting at the morbid connotations, she nods in relief.

She makes a mental note to ask about that later, when her son is either absent or otherwise occupied.

"She's dead, sweetie," Mary Margaret adds, taking a hold of Emma's hand in a surprisingly firm grip. When she looks at her mother, she catches the note of heaviness in her gaze and, with a glance in her father's direction, realises that they must know about what she did. They are sombre in a way that denotes their understanding of what exactly the Snow Queen's undoing had demanded.

She squeezes her mother's hand reassuringly, sending her and David both a tight smile.

Somehow, her gaze slides across to Killian standing alone in the corner of the room. He's watching her carefully, and though he still looks relieved, there's something leaden about his presence that makes her worry. His movements are unusually uncoordinated, his presence barely noticeable with how he's leaning on the wall next to the window.

Doctor Whale eventually arrives and clears her, and she snatches up her stuff and changes in record time, desperate to go home (she's always hated hospitals and this one has some particularly painful memories attached to it). In just over an hour, they are all sitting comfortably in the apartment. Regina has joined them, the woman displaying an unusual level of warmth when she greeted Emma, and now sits directly opposite her.

Killian silently inhabits the corner of the room, arms folded and eyes downcast, shadows falling across his lean frame.

The pit in her stomach grows deeper the longer he distances himself. She shirks it up to the overwhelming essence of the past twenty-four hours. After all, he has only just had his memories restored and it is the first time he's undertaken something so internally traumatic. She knows firsthand what it is like to think you know who you are and have that awareness ripped from you. And considering his already unparalleled predisposition for self-loathing, she can only imagine the thoughts and feelings simmering dangerously in his head.

They make small talk while they wait for Henry to depart, a wordless agreement that he doesn't need to be exposed to the harsh details of this scenario passed around the room with meaningful glances.

Eventually, he does fall asleep on the couch - entirely spent, his limbs splayed in every which direction as he snores contentedly into one of the thick cushions.

Emma smiles fondly at her son, yet she cannot deny the sense of relief that they can finally discuss what her son is not privy to.

Taking a seat at the dining table, she clasps her hands in front of her.

She directs her question at Killian when she asks in a hushed tone (Henry might still awake), "Have you told them everything... about what happened in the cave?"

He nods, walking across the room to lean against one of the wooden supports closer to her. There is still a sense of disenchantment in his presence, but she doesn't comment on it. Now is not the time, nor place (and Emma would prefer to confront him later, when they are alone and he cannot hide behind bravado and charm).

Regina turns to him, eyebrows raised, "Have you told _her _everything that happened in the cave?"

This startles Emma and she frowns between the two of them suspiciously.

"Wait, what do you mean?" she asks Killian, whose sullen expression has faded to make way for discomfort. His eyes dart between their faces and the floor, and he doesn't look like he's crossing his arms anymore so much as holding himself. Unmitigated alarm hums in her veins as she rotates her entire body on the chair to face him, "What is she talking about?"

"Well, aren't you curious as to how you're here and the Snow Queen is decidedly _not_?" Regina supplies.

Emma shrugs, "Her linking spell broke - I felt it happen. It was weird, and strangely liberating, but altogether weird. _Why_?" She looks around again, but everyone's eyes are on Killian who is glowering at Regina.

"Now is _not_ the time," he growls, and the woman cocks an eyebrow in amusement.

"What? You want to wait until you get a special moment?"

"_Regina_," Mary Margaret hisses, silencing her with a warning look. Emma looks to Killian again, gaze probing. However, before she can speak, he's answering her initial question again, deliberately redirecting the course of their discussion; he only glances at her once, an underlying plea for patience written in the icy blue depths as they fix on her.

In the back of her mind, a voice snickers at her obliviousness, already well-aware of just what could be so important that he needs to wade through what it means before he can explain it to her. After all, they are two of the same, cut from the same cloth - and while he may be open about many things, there comes a time when even Killian Jones needs to take a moment to stop and take stock.

"Aye, I told them what occurred in the cave," he says.

Regina purses her lips at the deflection but mercifully says nothing else.

"And Henry?" Emma whispers, watching her son sigh slowly and shift onto his side on the couch, eyes fluttering all the while.

"He knows you defeated her and you nearly died in the process. We didn't think it was our place to tell him exactly how you did that," Mary Margaret says compassionately.

For that, Emma is thankful and her answering nod is saturated with that appreciation.

Silence falls across the group after that and she plays idly with her thumbs, everyone's gazes hot on her face. And she knows exactly why - the air around them so poignant it becomes hard to swallow. They expect her to explain herself, her actions deemed irrational in their opinions. Even the goddamn Evil Queen is appraising her with a look of muted judgement and curiosity. Taking a deep breath, Emma looks up.

"I'm not going to apologise," she tells them firmly, "Because I'm not sorry about what I did."

"_Emma_," her father chides, his dusty blue eyes reflecting just a hint of the anguish he must have felt when she was on the precipice of death. But she won't lie to them, and she won't coddle them with falsities. The truth has always been therapeutic, and she'd rather have them understand her motives than pretend to regret a decision she would make again in a heartbeat just to console them.

"I understand that you might be... _angry_ with me for what I did," she tells them, catching Killian's eyes for a second (they burn with enough intensity to make her falter in her words), "But I did what I had to in order to save all of you - and, don't get me wrong, I'm _glad _you're upset that I kind of, uh... sacrificed myself... but you can't hold that against me when I know for a fact you would all do the _exact _same thing given the circumstances." Again, her eyes drift around their little congregation, holding the gaze of each person meaningfully, pleadingly. "I don't expect you to agree with my decisions in that cave," she says, and this time when she locks eyes with Killian, she holds them, "But I do expect you to respect them."

He doesn't drop her gaze, and she watches as his jaw locks, the sinew in his cheek spasming as he struggles to maintain a neutral facade. But there's pain in his eyes, written plainly across his face if you look hard enough. And of all the people in the room, it is him she feels she needs to convince.

Mary Margaret sighs, David rubbing his forehead beside her. The petite woman reaches across the table to grasp Emma's hand, pulling her attention from the pirate.

"Sometimes I hate how much you're like us," she says.

Emma returns her mother's tired smirk sluggishly, a bout of exhaustion dragging on her lids without warning. Mary Margret notices it quickly, smiling and standing up.

"You should get some rest - we'll talk about the rest in the morning."

She immediately protests, whining slightly when she frowns, "_Noooo_, I still have questions."

And she does, but the enervation coaxing her towards sleep won't hear it.

"Tomorrow," Mary Margaret assures her with a maternal smile.

Blinking lazily, she wipes her bleary eyes with the heels of her hands and reluctantly pushes her chair out. Regina moves too, offering some succinct farewells before departing; leaving Emma, her parents, and Killian all standing in the middle of the apartment, Henry snoring in the background. Naturally, Killian is the next to act. He mutters something about procuring a room at Granny's before it gets too late and tries to make his exit swiftly after but Emma beats him to the door, cutting off his route and waiting until her parents have retreated with baby Neal to their room.

Her hand finds the back of his neck and she cups it, shuffling closer to him. The affection must surprise him because his eyes dart to her extended arm in disbelief. She can't say she cares; losing him has had an irreversible impact on her ability to physicalise her emotions.

"Hey, you've been awfully quiet tonight," she murmurs.

After some hesitation, his hands run up and down her back, an attempt at reassurance no doubt. The action is completely negated by the hollow look in his eyes.

"Just tired, love. It's been a long... _month_."

It's a weak excuse and they both know it.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

He leans into her hand when she places it on his cheek, warmth glowing in his eyes behind the thin veil of disillusionment. His digits trace up her arm and he leans forward to kiss her once, a soft and tentative (almost hesitant) thing that makes her ache inside.

"Absolutely fine," he assures her half-heartedly when he pulls back, using a finger to tuck some hair behind her ear.

There's a beat of silence.

Then, she tells him as lightly as possible, "We have a lot to talk about."

She feels him go rigid beneath her touch, but he recovers quickly.

"Aye," he agrees, "Tomorrow. Right now you should rest, Swan."

He is undeniably right - near-death experiences, it seems, really take it out of a person. Her body is screaming at her to rest and she's fairly certain she'll be asleep until midday tomorrow. But she also cannot evade the residual despair that clutches her heart whenever she thinks of losing him again. Especially now that she's directly experienced one version of that and just barely escaped another. It fuels an unfamiliar feeling of boldness she is unequipped to stifle.

Emma's grip on his lapels tightens fractionally, "You could stay over? We've got room."

His eyes spark but he pulls away, shaking his head with a tight, inauthentic smile.

"Good night, Swan."

The flame in her belly dies in under a second and it unnerves her more than anything else. Because he's _here _and he _remembers _but he's still withdrawing from her. A litany of self-doubts rain down on her, but she doesn't voice them. They hang in the air, communicated by the almost indiscernible crease in her forehead and narrowing of her expression.

Killian, no doubt, registers it. For some reason though, he still turns around and leaves. Even if she does see undeniable traces of regret before his face disappears from sight.

"Good night, Killian."

8888

For such an early hour, her apartment is a hive of activity. David and Mary Margaret loiter around the kitchen, cleaning the remnants of breakfast and playing with baby Neal; Regina sits opposite Emma at the dining table alongside Belle and Gold. Technically, it's only nine o'clock but for social purposes - it's strange. Especially considering that, among her guests resides: the (formerly) Evil Queen, Rumplestiltskin and his wife (and real-life disney princess) Belle. All of whom are filling her in on the events she missed whilst she was otherwise disposed.

Basically what went on after she practically died.

Henry, thankfully, decided he needed to retrieve some much-adored books from his adoptive mother's house and left a short time ago, leaving them free to discuss everything.

"So _you_ healed me?" Emma asks, pointing to Regina.

The woman nods, "Stab wound. Easy fix."

Emma drops back into her seat, turning over the past day in her head, "Okay, so after I... more or less fell unconscious, _you_," she gestures to the Evil Queen, "fixed my stab wound. Then what happened?"

"Then we took you to the hospital and the rest you know," Gold replies. Of everyone there, he is the least pleased about his attendance (Belle undoubtedly coerced him into coming). Which is strange, because it's not as though Killian is here to amp up the tension between them.

...Killian.

Emma's heart constricts as she scans the apartment again, but he hasn't miraculously appeared in the past five minutes. Although, they didn't exactly send out a public notice saying that this was when they were convening again. So, really, he could just be under the assumption that it's too early for his presence. Truthfully, she knows that's just an excuse.

He'd be here by now if he was coming; he's always been one for punctuality.

Trying to dismantle the feeling of deflation taking root in her chest, she looks up and asks, "Well that clears up everything that happened after. Does anyone have any ideas what happened to Killian?" She directs that questions at Gold, "One minute the Snow Queen was threatening him, the next he... _remembered. _And he was himself again. How did that happen?"

Distantly, she acknowledges a knocking at the front door which David disappears to answer.

The pawnbroker levels her with an impatient expression that disappears when Belle shoves him good-naturedly. He schools his features into something vaguely resembling forbearance and squints at her knowingly, "Isn't it obvious?"

Belle's voice echoes in her head: _"In essence… this little boy was saved by her love... True Love."_

_True love's kiss_.

"But I didn't - I didn't..." she sputters for a second, gesticulating wildly before she finally spits out the words in a blended string of nearly-incomprehensible vowels and consonants, "I didn't _kiss_ him. I didn't _do_ anything." Alternating her gaze between Gold, Belle, Regina and her parents, she searches for the answer there. Her answer, however, comes from the doorway.

"Only an act of true love can thaw a frozen heart and the same applies for glass shards, I'd venture," Elsa says, signature demure smile fixed upon her face. Behind her, Anna and Kristoff are sliding into the room as well, hand-in-hand as they waltz across the apartment to exchange pleasantries with David. Emma stands up instantly, walking quickly towards her friend.

"You're awake!"

She pulls the other woman into a quick hug, squeezing her briefly before pulling away, watching her affectionate expression with one of reciprocal warmth. However, there is something else laced into her large blue eyes, something like gratitude or maybe awe.

"Yes, I am - thanks to you, apparently."

"I didn't do much," Emma brushes off the appreciation with a diffident shrug, pointedly ignoring the looks she gets from her parents (no doubt, they dislike her downplaying the fact she nearly killed herself). Instead, she turns and walks with Elsa to sit at the table again. As they make their way across the apartment, Mary Margaret speaks up from the kitchen where she's putting away the last of the dry dishes.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Elsa replies, "When the Snow Queen was defeated, all of her magic faded out of existence so, without her neutralisation curse, I recovered quite quickly. Thankfully, too, because Anna's been telling me we have some business to attend to in Arendelle."

"Don't tell me - Hans is back?" Emma quips sarcastically, thinking about the mutton-chopped antagonist from the film (for some reason, she has a particular distaste for that disney villain), but her friend's head whips towards her.

"Actually, yes. How did you know?"

Emma gapes for a long moment before she inwardly reconciles with the fact that she's dealing with fairytale characters and nothing is ever completely out of the realm of possibility. Even though she is the daughter of the famed Snow White and Prince Charming, she still often struggles to comprehend that there is a chance every single fairytale character she's ever heard of is in fact real (though it does make her wonder where the hell they pilfer the stories from in this world).

She shrugs, "Lucky guess."

Elsa gives her a strange look but dismisses the momentary confusion, taking a seat beside Emma.

"So, you were saying before that it would have been an act of true love?"

The other woman nods.

Emma shakes her head, "But that still doesn't explain how it happened."

At Elsa's probing look, she explains, "Well, I never... Uh. I hadn't kissed him. So how did i get the glass shard out and restore his memories if there was no kiss?"

"Emma," she begins with a tinkling laugh, her cadence gentle and authoritative, "true love isn't just proven in physical affection."

Anna pipes up from the side, "Trust me. I would know."

Elsa smiles brightly at her sister and turns her attention back to Emma, "Kristoff says you sacrificed your life in that cave to prevent the Queen from hurting Killian, yes?"

Emma nods numbly.

"Well, when you sacrificed your life to save him, you committed an act of true love. It melted the glass in his heart and, if what I've been told is correct, the memory spell using that same shard as an anchor." She dimly remembers, as she fell to the floor, seeing Killian drop. In her memory, she can just string together the image - watching from her periphery as he began to writhe, hand and hook braced at his temples, some unforeseen force wreaking havoc on his mind.

Everyone else in the room is silent, staring at her.

And it takes her a minute to realise why: she now has undeniable confirmation that, regardless of what she says or how she brushes it off, she is (to some unassailable degree) in love with Killian. It's something that, up until now, she's avoided thinking about at length - partially because she's never had the time, partially because it's a terrifying concept. She's been in love before, she's experienced love in all its form (friendly, familial, romantic) and it has more often than not resulted in heartbreak for her. So she's not surprised that everyone has simultaneously decided to regard her with a degree of wariness.

What _surprises_ her is that she's yet to experience an overriding desire to run.

She waits for it as she sits there, waits for the panic to set in and the chain in her chest to jerk forward, propelling her out and away from everything that might hurt her. It never comes. There's only a strange sort of acceptance. It feels warm and comfortable and light in her chest. Not heavy. Not smothering. She feels content, acknowledging the truth and rejecting her autocratic tendency to throw up her walls.

Emma _loves_ Killian.

And maybe it's because she's already experienced the previously unprecedented anguish of losing him but she cannot find it in herself to regret it - not when she knows with unmatched surety that wasting time denying her feelings is just that: a waste. David had once told her to live for the little moments, to use them to endure the worst ones. Sitting there, staring at the table as Elsa's words sink slowly into her brain, she yearns for more moments. With _him_.

She has every reason to be scared, and being scared isn't a problem. She realises that now with stunning clarity.

What _is_ a problem is if she continues to let the overbearing fear of losing him dictate her actions.

Emma registers, as she looks up around her, that the room is still quiet - waiting for her inevitable flight instinct to kick in.

They are all too aware of her stunning propensity for circumventing anything remotely emotionally confronting. So she must surprise them when she shrugs and says to Regina, thinking about their endeavour to find another cure for Killian's affliction, "At least now you don't have to worry about teaching me Elvish."

For a second, they are dumbfounded. Then, with a slight smirk, Regina replies dryly, "Thank god."

8888

The situation almost parallels with their last exchange, Killian notes, as he strolls down the sidewalk towards Regina's mansion the next morning. He hadn't intended to seek the boy out but seeing him now, he decides that it is as good a time as ever to confront the inevitable. Henry sits unobtrusively on the pavement, a new book in hand, reading quietly. The kid always seems to be reading and something about that makes him smile; Liam used to love books. In fact, there's a great deal about Henry that reminds him of his brother - the unwavering faith in people, the fierce loyalty and love of family (biological relations or not), the ceaseless desire to do and be good (to, as Killian always parroted, abide by good form).

As he approaches, the lad's head rises. Henry spots Killian and promptly closes his novel, shifting it beside him and smiling a greeting at the pirate.

"Hey Killian."

"Morning Henry," he responds with a nod, pulling to a stop and taking a seat next to the boy.

"What are you doing here?" Henry asks after a moment.

Killian sucks in a deep, wary breath. There's an undercurrent to the question that suggests Henry knows where the pirate _should_ be (with Emma). But he didn't come to talk about that or the bottomless pit of roiling emotions currently preventing him from actively seeking her out. In fact, he came because of a memory - one that only stuttered to the forefront of his mind the previous night as he sat tossing and turning in a restless half-slumber. A confusing, unexplainable memory that, at the time of its occurrence, had seemed trivial despite being unexplained.

Glancing once at his companion, Killian asks, "Why did you help me?"

Henry frowns.

"_Sorry_?"

"When I was still afflicted by the glass," he describes, "I came to you for aid. I was unapologetic towards your accusations yet you still told me everything I wanted to know about my lost memories." He turns to stare at the boy who merely shrugs in response as though he still doesn't _really_ understand the question.

"Yeah? And?"

Killian looks away and rubs his forehead, grasping for the right words, "Well... why did you do that?"

Henry turns to study the pirate, soft brown eyes unnervingly observant as he stares. He has eyes like his father and they pierce him just the same way Bae's used to when it was just the two of them at the helm of the Jolly Roger, too knowing for a child, too wise for his age. After an extended moment, where Killian is fairly certain his heart is about to thump right out of his chest, the boy shrugs diffidently, "Because I knew you would come back. You just needed a push."

His only response is a befuddled look, and Henry sighs, looking out across the street as he tries to explain himself, "When I was throwing all those accusations at you, you didn't care. _At all_. I might as well have been speaking another language for all the reaction I was getting. But then when I mentioned my mom you got this - this _look_ for a split second like you were sad or something. I don't really know how to explain it but I just guessed that even when you hated everyone and everything and you were doing really terrible things... you still cared about her. At least a little bit. And that's all I needed to see to know you were still in there, somewhere. And that maybe if I could get you going in the right direction, you'd get back to yourself."

Killian still remembers the way Henry had scrutinised him with a cautious, piercing gaze. Back when he'd been under the Snow Queen's thumb and she'd wanted him to bond with the boy. He remembers feeling a strange sort of obligation to protect him later that evening when she asked about him. And the more he talks to these people, to Emma's family, the more he realises just how much faith they had stocked in him.

Never once had they wavered, never once had they shunned him completely. It baffles Killian beyond all belief (no one has ever had such unswerving faith in him).

At length, he says (and he's not quite sure if he's talking to himself or to Henry), "But I _hurt _her."

Henry nods bluntly, "Yeah. You did - and don't get me wrong, I'm angry about that."

He turns to look at Killian again, sympathy edging his youthful features, "But I know for a fact that you're more upset with yourself than I ever could be. So I figure there's no point in lauding it over you, not when she needs you." Killian's head snaps in the kid's direction at the statement, but he merely nods reassuringly, "She does need you, you know. She won't admit it but losing you was really hard for her. I've never seen her happier than when she's been with you, so when she lost you it was really... not great."

There's nothing Killian can do but stare at the boy beside him, the same child whose age belies his understanding of the world. He thinks to himself, studying the way Emma's son watches the road in deep thought, that Baelfire would be proud (exceedingly so). It stirs warmth in him, his lips twitching and cracking into a poor (but nonetheless genuine) excuse of a smile. He thumps Henry gently on the back as he turns to him.

"Thank you, Henry."

Henry grins and shrugs, "No problem."

8888

It's all well and good that she's come to terms with her feelings.

But that doesn't change the fact that he's pulling away.

The next day, she scarcely sees him - even when they do happen to fall into each other's paths, it is brief and he is distant.

Then again, she is preoccupied with informing the town that their latest threat has been vanquished as well as sending Elsa, Anna and Kristoff back to Arendelle. She arrives home exhausted and before she can scrounge up enough energy to peel herself off the couch and seek him out so they can talk this out, she falls into a deep sleep.

Though she has come to terms with how she feels and her unequivocal desire to act on it, it hurts a little more with every passing hour that he's absent.

She wonders if perhaps _he _is overwhelmed by the revelation that has been unceremoniously thrust into their unprepared palms: that they possess the things legends are born from.

He's always been so smooth, the one who pushes for more, forces her to be open. Now, it seems that job has fallen to her.

In the back of her head, she's aware of the irony. After all the chasing he did, it's only fair she do a little herself. Maybe after all of this, they'll laugh about how much chasing they each had to endure.

But the longer he distances himself (one day turning into two which quickly morphs into three) the more she wonders, and the more the hope flaring in her stomach begins to die. Maybe he doesn't want her anymore, maybe he's still under the influence of the glass, maybe he's decided she's too much trouble because he had his mind plucked and his memories taken and then returned and he keeps getting put in danger because he means something to her. Maybe, maybe, _maybe_…

Eventually, her patience wears thin enough that on the third night she snatches up her coat and strides to the door.

Surely, knowing is better than this infuriating limbo they're stuck in.

8888

There is an untameable tempest of emotions in the very marrow of his bones - guilt and sadness and anger and disgust, a physical thing that makes him nauseous because he remembers every moment of his affliction. More importantly, he knows that he has no one to blame despite what they say because, even if the Snow Queen stole his memories and impregnated his soul with the blackest magic, she didn't take his heart.

_That_ particular piece of him, and therefore his autonomy, was still very much in his possession, was still under his control. So, technically, everything he did (regardless of whether she orchestrated it) was of his own volition, and even if his regret spans the breadth of his heart and the depth of his soul, he cannot simply forgive himself and pretend nothing ever happened.

He _should_ be happy, grateful, overjoyed and a thousand other things because he has everything within arm's reach just waiting for collection. There is family and friendship and belonging and home. There is a life that beckons him to claim it. Yet he can't - and he hates himself just a little more for it. For being weak.

The true love's kiss _worked_.

The only thing powerful enough to render curses useless and transcend realms and justify the most unspeakable of acts.

But…

But he doesn't understand because how could she still love him after everything? Surely, she just feels obligated to stand by him. After all, she deserves so much better. He believes with every fibre of his being that she deserves the sun and the stars and the moon and her family and friends and a life with someone who hasn't caused her pain and maybe _that's_ the root of it.

Maybe he wanted to be the only one who never hurt her. The only one who never inflicted unfathomable pain, irrespective of good intentions.

Except he did.

He hurt her more than anyone ever had.

He broke her repeatedly and without mercy and he can't take any of it back. He can scream and shout and apologise until his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are stained and his throat is raw; it will never be enough. His own self-hatred is like an impenetrable wall keeping him from believing her advances. Finally, he thinks he understands just how difficult it was for her to let him in. The only thing is; he's not as strong as her, despite what she thinks.

She's confused that he hasn't taken her aside to profess his affections already, he knows that and he sees the way it disheartens her.

He's always had difficulty trying to identify the reason to his rhyme. This time in particular, he curses the lack of understanding he retains for his own mental infrastructure. Pulling away from her is an automatic response (albeit painful) despite being something he's never done before.

It might be because of the bitter taste in his mouth and he can't tell what's real and what's not real anymore and he almost lost her and this is more arduous than any journey he's ever forged before. It's harder than it should be. They love each other - _it's been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt_ \- but so much has happened that can't be undone. And he can't tell her about the true love's kiss; how is he supposed to explain something he can't even come to grips with?

Especially when that seed of doubt keeps blossoming, especially when he keeps replaying that terrible moment in his head where he thought he'd lost her - where he thought he'd failed. Trying to reconcile that pure untainted disappointment and grief with the knowledge that it actually _did _work is nigh impossible. He had resigned himself to the understanding that where she can have the world, he is nothing but dust.

It physically pains him to know that he can never be everything she deserves - she should have everything and anything, an infinity, but he can only give her a crippled, alcoholic pirate seeking redemption in jade eyes. She needs someone who has never hurt her. And he hates himself so much for hurting her, so much it haunts him - _she _haunts him.

Every time he sees her he can't shake the image of her tears, her screams, her blood (on his hands, clothes, staining his skin). He drowns in it like nothing else, scrabbles frantically for oxygen amidst an ocean of disturbing memories where she is in unfathomable pain.

For all that he has been designated the role of open lover in their tremulous relationship, he doesn't quite know how to voice the tangle of thoughts in his mind to her without spooking her.

A small, almost nonexistent part of him _wants_ to spook her and send her running (as painful as it would be) just because he wants so much more for her than he can ever provide. Maybe it's _selfish_, maybe it's _selfless_ \- either way, he just wants her to be safe and happy.

The terror of losing her again and the mortification at the possibility of inflicting any more damage has him paralysed.

But he cannot avoid her forever, not in a town as small as Storybrooke. It takes three days of awkward encounters for him to muster up enough courage and, when he finally does, he forces his limbs to do his bidding; making haste to her apartment. He second guesses himself at least five different times on the walk up the stairs.

Finally, he reaches the door and lifts his fist to knock.

Except it opens before his knuckles can ever rap against the aged wood, revealing Emma. She is dressed like she's about to brave the cold night air herself. Her eyes widen as they land on him, surprise muffling the previously determined edge to her features.

A beat of silence follows where they merely stare at each other, and he drops his arm to his side.

"Killian," she greets breathily, her expression tight and wary.

He swallows the thickness in his throat and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, answering her with a nod and an equally quiet greeting.

"Swan."

She chews her bottom lip and steps back from the threshold, gesturing for him to come inside. And he does, shuffling silently into the noiseless apartment and moving until he's standing by the kitchen, good hand braced on the counter. The door shuts with a firm click and he hears more than sees her follow his path across the room, only stopping when she is directly in front of him with her arms folded across her chest.

"So are we finally going to have that talk?" she asks, a quiet sharpness to her words.

Killian's eyes dart around her face, and he nods before glancing up to scan the room. When he meets her gaze again, it's to ask, "Is your family home?"

She shakes her head, "No. My parents have taken Neal out for the night and Henry is with Regina."

"Okay," he says, more to himself than her, trying to muster the same courage that propelled him to this point -

"Why have you been avoiding me?" she cuts him off, eyebrows drawn, lips tight.

"I wasn't -"

"Cut it out," she snaps, harsher than she's been all week - and he thinks perhaps she's had just about enough. Her voice softens marginally when she continues, staring at her shoes self-consciously, "I know that all of this is... overwhelming, but you can't just push me away." Green eyes drift up to meet his again and his mouth is dry for a long second. Then he's shaking his head almost imploringly.

"I'm not pushing -"

"Stop it, okay? I'm not stupid."

His mouth snaps shut and she takes a deep, shaky breath in what he assumes is an attempt to steady herself. Emma's gaze darts between his eyes, searching for a reason, probing for an honest answer as she continues, "You might be here but you're... you're _distant_... I've barely seen you since I woke up and I want to know why."

The silence is deafening.

"Why are you avoiding me?" she demands again, cornering him.

"Emma…" his tone is gentle enough to sound reluctant and she shakes her head, taking a forceful step in his direction.

"_No_. No, you don't _get_ to avoid me. After weeks of hell, you don't get to do that without an explanation." He flinches when she mentions the pain he inflicted, and finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from her as her voice softens ever so slightly, belying the no doubt trembling impatience within, "You remember everything now, so I want to know why you're still avoiding me." Her eyes pierce him, penetrating and desperate and pleading. And then her brow furrows and her voice is barely a whisper when, tentatively, she asks ,"Is the glass still –"

"No. Gods, no," he tells her, quickly - and her face hardens all over again.

"Then, _why _are you pulling away from me?"

His hand makes an automatic path to his neck, running up over his scalp to pull at his hair as he turns away and begins to pace. His thoughts are an indecipherable mess, a snarl of strings that won't roll out, a toiling sea that just won't calm. It's humming in his veins; this restless need to communicate to her clashing violently against his self-ingrained need to isolate himself. His feet pad quietly against the floor, but he barely hears it over the blood pumping loudly in his ears.

"Emma, I can't – I won't – I don't deserve…"

"Deserve _what_?"

Her voice rises, gesturing wildly.

Killian spins on his heel, ice blue eyes blown wide.

"_You_."

Tilting her head, she tries to close the space between them; trying again to coax him out of this state he's hopelessly drilled himself into.

"Killian... What happened wasn't your fault."

He backs away, arms up, eyes red-rimmed, voice cracking in a physical manifestation of the infinitesimal fractures webbing across his entire being.

"But it _was_!" he yells brokenly, "You're right, I remember _everything_. So I remember everything I did, every line I crossed and I remember hurting you, I remember putting you and everyone you loved in danger –"

"So where does that leave us?" she screams back, her sympathy evaporating so quickly it gives him whiplash just watching the pendulum of her emotions swing back and forth between an incurable frustration and harrowing sadness.

"I don't know!"

"I've already told you it wasn't your fault!" Emma says angrily, throwing her arms out wide, "That wasn't just my way of alleviating your guilt on my death bed, you should know me better than that! What else do you need me to say? You saved me, we shared... we shared - you know…" She groans, rolling her eyes at her own inability to say it - which is precisely when he realises that she _knows._

_She knows._

Expression falling slack, in a mumbled disbelieving cadence, he asks her, "How do you know about...?"

He has just as much trouble saying at she does, like saying it will make it all the more real and it can't be real, it couldn't _possibly _be real. Which isn't to say he doesn't want her, or love her, but he cannot reconcile himself with the irrefutable fact that a piece of her hard sought-after heart belongs to him.

"For shit's sake, true love's kiss!" she yells, striding angrily towards him, "_There_, I said it. Now can we stop tip-toeing around it?"

"Who told you?" is all he can manage, his head still reeling because he distinctly remembers trying to muster up the courage to tell her.

Emma rolls her eyes in mixed incredulity and exasperation, "_Besides_ the fact it was an act of true love that got your memories back?" His mouth falls open just a little more because he hadn't given much thought to what had caused his returned memories. If she notices his slack jaw, she doesn't comment - just ploughs on, mowing him down with her glittering eyes and impassioned voice, "Nobody had to tell me! I'm not stupid - what else could have removed the Snow Queen's linking curse?"

Shaking his head, he answers in defeat, "I don't know..."

As his voice drifts off, they merely stare at each other - caught irrevocably in each others' orbits, unable to disentangle despite this untouchable thing keeping them apart. And they're both tired - so _so _tired, yet even more unwilling to stop fighting against it, despite the fact that it's tearing them up inside. His eyes are still tinged pink and wet, and her cheeks are flushed, and they are both breathless from yelling.

She tries again, voice croaky from screaming at him "Killian -"

He cuts her off again, stammering and stumbling and grasping for a place to begin, "I'm not - it's - Emma - I don't..."

"We shared true love's kiss," she interrupts bluntly, making his heart stutter. The begging undertone of her words obvious enough that he has to swallow the angst that lodges in his throat (it only falls to the spot just beneath his breastbone, conglomerating in a thick uncomfortable ball that makes breathing painful), "Why is that not enough? Why am I not enough?"

"Don't you dare ever think you are not enough, Emma. You are more than enough."

He doesn't recognise his own voice, it is so vehement and strong even though he is crumbling inside.

"Then what am I supposed to think?" she asks with a sad shrug and wet eyes, "I have spent _weeks_ wishing you would come back so I could do it all differently and now you're just going to turn away from me because you hate yourself too much to – to what? To love me? You loathe yourself so goddamn much you'd be willing to turn your back on me? Because that's exactly what you're doing."

"I'm not turning my back," he hisses, lines marring his forehead, "I'm just - I am _struggling_ to see how you can even stand me after everything I did! I'm struggling to come to terms with how you can just forgive me like nothing happened –"

"No, you're struggling to forgive _yourself_. It has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you."

Emma shakes her head and takes a breath, a light flickering to life in her eyes as something dawns on her.

"No. No, it doesn't," she repeats quietly, crowding his personal space in a strange role reversal. Then again, this entire situation is role reversal and he's never been more empathetic to her plight than now, when he is the one trying to shove back the walls threatening to crush him - the walls erected and fortified by the Snow Queen's manipulation. He's never been more glad for someone's demise, the black hatred burning deep in his gut.

Emma unknowingly quells it with a flick of her eyes, her gaze dragging down his face, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek beseechingly.

"This has nothing to do with me," she says, almost like she's reassuring herself, "So what is it? Why have you been avoiding me?"

Her tenderness smothers him, her affection burning into his skin with a keen precision that makes him gasp for air like there's a physical weight on his lungs. He breathes deeply through his nose, mouth in a tight line.

She waits for him to answer, never moving her hand, never pressing the topic. She is patient in a way he will never understand or manage to adequately requite.

After a pregnant pause, pierced by nothing but his strained breathing, he lets the words fall out into the space between them.

"...I hurt you, Emma. I always thought - I always _wanted _to be better than all of them. All of the people in your past. But now I'm in the same league as every other person who has ever betrayed you, and I don't know if I can live with that."

With deeply furrowed brows, she cants her head and swipes her thumb across his cheek, "You're really not."

"But I -"

"You had no choice," she insists, shuffling forward again and placing her other hand on his empty cheek. His hand and hook reach up to loop around her wrists, but he doesn't bring them down, just holds on for dear life, anchoring himself in the green depths of her eyes.

"She didn't have my heart. I had a choice. I was well aware of everything I was doing."

"But it wasn't _you_ \- it was her distorted, twisted version -"

"That doesn't change anything -"

"It changes everything!" she nearly yells.

"It doesn't change the fact that you nearly died because of me," Killian's voice is almost inaudible, but she hears it all the same. Her grip on his face becomes firmer, enough to keep his head in place directly in front of her as she pulls him forward to press their foreheads together. She speaks with such quiet conviction, he's almost tempted to believe her.

"I did not nearly die because of you. I nearly died because of the Snow Queen. I'm _alive _because of you."

He sighs, "Emma -"

"I love you."

The world screeches to a halt, his mind going blissfully blank as he drinks in her closed eyes and sloped cheeks and _she just said -_

_"_I love you," she says again, firmer.

"You shouldn't," he answers automatically, his brain struggling to catch up to his mouth. Honestly, he's surprised he can even form coherent words when the woman he's been besotted with for just under two years finally tells him the one thing he's always wanted her to say. The timing is just all wrong though and she's only saying it because she wants him to stop blaming himself and -

"I love you," she repeats, this time opening her eyes and fixing him with a determined look.

Killian's heart seizes up before it begins to beat rapidly; violently enough that any minute it will surely erupt from his chest and fall with a heavy thud onto the floor.

"Emma –"

"Killian, I _love _you." She smiles and it's perchance the most beautiful thing he's seen in a long time because she looks so self-assured, like she can finally see herself through his eyes and she shakes her head and tells him, on an exasperated chuckle, "I want _you, _and I'd think by now you should know I'm stubborn enough that you can try to change my mind as much as you like. It won't change a damn thing."

There was a time when he thought silence measured the depth of his pain, his suffering, his loss. Except now he cannot help but feel the need to redefine that concept because her words echo in the quiet apartment, leaving nothing in their wake and his ears ring and for once he's not losing anything. He's gaining _everything_. For weeks, he's looked at her and seen what he broke (every scar he carved standing out as sure as though they were physically branded onto her pale skin). Now though...

Now, she's forcing him to look at her and see what else he's done: he's made her stronger, better, fiercer in every way possible. He sees it in her face, written plainly for him and anyone sparing the effort to look. Emma Swan is different because of him. The weight on his chest slowly lifts, leaving the barest of pressure that he mightn't ever be able to remove. But it's enough to peel away the layers of self-loathing and spur him to action.

He leans down to kiss her, moving his hand and hook to wrap firmly around her waist as he bruises his lips against hers.

She reciprocates instantly, moving her hands from his cheeks to drag her fingers through his hair, raking her nails down through his scalp when his tongue runs across the seal of her mouth. She gasps and he takes the opportunity it presents, deepening the kiss so it becomes something carnal and desperate - and then they're moving, shuffling awkwardly towards her bedroom with fumbling limbs and stuttered breaths. They don't reach the door before she's yanking his shirt off his shoulders, and he responds in kind by literally tearing hers off and pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, throwing the ruined material in some unimportant corner of the apartment.

Killian's hands roam her bare skin and he only pauses to pull back to stare at her, breathing heavily.

The words bubble up and out of his mouth, unbidden and unapologetic.

"...I love you," he gasps abruptly, "I've always loved you."

Again, Emma Swan smiles and leans up so their lips are brushing when she replies silkily, "_Good_."

He grins broadly for what feels like the first time in centuries.

8888

Later, she tucks herself carefully into the crook of his arm, head on his bare chest, his hand tangling gently in the ends of her hair.

It's quiet now, but that will end any minute - Mary Margaret and David are due home _any minute,_ carting a screeching baby Neal. Which is a great reason to get up and at least collect their clothes from their scattered locations around the apartment and change into some pyjamas (if only for the sake of their dignity). But right now, she's just too comfortable to move; warm and secure and safe like nothing she's experienced in weeks or months or, hell, even years.

"I know you don't want to hear it," he breaks the silence, making her tilt her head up on his chest so she can see his face (his eyes are focused on her and she shivers at the way they loiter down the length of her body before rising to her face again), "But I am sorry. And I just needed to say that - at least once when you weren't dying."

Emma sends him a mildly stern look, "You're right. I _don't_ want to hear it."

She noses into his chest, "But I forgive you anyway."

"For bringing it up or for the past weeks?"

"Both."

Silence descends on them then, wrapping around the small dimly-lit room. The moon casts a pale glow over them both, his face bathed in pale white light when she looks up at him again with a small smile. He's staring at the ceiling, still absent-mindedly playing with her hair, but he notices when she shifts her arm to prop herself up more. Swinging her leg over his hip, she slides on top of him so she can rest her chin on her hands where she locks them over his heart.

"I know there's still a lot of things - a lot of... unresolved pain that _this _doesn't solve," she blushes just thinking about the fact that she's draped over him and they're still both very much naked (he grins knowingly), "And I know you still don't completely forgive yourself even if I do, and I love you for caring that much. But we can work through it. I don't want to run anymore, and I don't want to lose this again. I can't lose you again." she mumbles.

"You won't. I'll not go anywhere unless you order me away - I swear," he returns, expression earnest.

There's a beat of silence.

"And I'm sorry too," she whispers, surprising him.

Killian's brows furrow, "For what, love?"

"For taking this long. For not realising how much I need you until I lost you," Emma murmurs, transfixed by the way his expression morphs from confused to something soft and pliable and loving. His fingers begin to trace up her spine and he cards his hand in her hair. With his trademark smirk, he rolls them over so he hovers above her.

He nudges his nose against hers, "I guess I can find a way to forgive you."

Then he kisses her, her smile dissolves into a pleased moan, and the world fades away.

* * *

**One last review for old times' sake?**

**(No seriously, I'm so stressed because of how desperate I am for you guys to feel like you've gotten closure from this ending just tell me you didn't hate it/feel unsatisfied I do not usually beg like this)**


	8. Epilogue

**I have zero self-control and a lot of you wanted an epilogue so here's a little something-something about the after (P.S. I adore each and every one of you)**

* * *

_Epilogue: Midnight Interludes_

Sometimes, he has nightmares.

There are nights where she will wake to the sound of his stunted breathing, his fists clenched amongst the sheets at his side as he jerks restlessly from side to side. On these nights, when there is no light in the room but that which is cast about by the pale moonlight filtering in through the curtains, and he unintentionally drags her from her slumber, she reaches over to him.

Her hand finds his shoulder, and she shakes him gently from his terrors.

The way his eyes snap open, wide with fear and despair, makes her heart seize. For the thousandth time, she feels an unmitigated hatred for the Snow Queen. Even three months after her demise, her poisonous touch still lingers on his soul.

As Killian's gaze finally slides across to find her face, his ragged breathing begins to slow. His heart is still thudding loudly in the silent room, and her palm drifts from his arm to rest over it. She tries to saturate her gaze with as much understanding as she can as she shuffles closer to him, propping herself up on her spare arm so she can look down on him. She uses her free hand to brush some hair from his forehead.

He's still just staring at her, almost like he finds it physically impossible to tear his gaze away.

And Emma attempts a tight smile, "Same one?" she asks gently.

Killian nods, just barely discernible through the darkness.

Every time it is the same - or so he tells her.

It took a week after the first one for him to finally spit it out, string the words together for her. At first, when he'd begun waking in the middle of the night, he'd simply crushed her to him until the tremors had stilled and the exhaustion had pulled him mercifully back into the familiar clutches of sleep. Then, finally, after some coaxing on her part and a week of sleepless nights, he had managed to murmur his deepest fears, vocalise the nightmare that haunts him relentlessly.

"It always starts with losing you," he had whispered across to her, his fingers drifting through the ends of her hair, "You die again, and again, and _again _and each time I… I can do nothing but watch. I'm paralysed." His lilting voice had begun to crack then, and she had taken it as a sign to nuzzle closer, reassuring him without words that she was in no danger. Naturally, his arms had tightened as he'd continued to talk.

Though she's never experienced the terrible nightmare herself, she can picture it clearly in her head. His voice ringing in her ears as she thinks about what follows her repetitive demise.

After he loses her, he loses himself. In his nightmare, he is helpless to the Snow Queen's influence. The way he describes it; he is a marionette doll, his actions are completely out of his control as though his limbs are attached to invisible strings and he is merely observing them. He has a front row seat to watching himself destroy everything good in his life again. From her to her family to her friends and this beloved little town.

Then comes the amnesia. Though he doesn't _actually_ forget anything, he physically sees the memories fade - the images disintegrating to dust that falls between his fingers like fine sand. Until eventually he cannot see anything but blackness. Until there is nothing left and the panic closes around his throat like a vice because his eyes can't pierce the black curtain shrouding the mental image of her face.

She is jerked back to the present when he shivers.

Trailing her eyes down his face, she watches him screw his eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the no doubt vivid flashes of his nightmare.

There's only one thing that helps at times like these.

"Hey, you're okay," she reassures him, all tender notes and softened eyes, cupping his cheek so he looks at her.

He swallows, eyebrows drawing together, "Do you mind?"

Emma shakes her head with a small smile, tracing her fingers down his neck and asking the same string of questions that always initiate this small consolation only she can offer him. It's no trouble to listen to him retell their tale anyway. Sometimes, it's even nice to hear him recite it at her prompting.

"How did we meet?" she asks, feeling success rise comfortably in her chest when his mouth tics up in a lopsided smile. His eyes rise to the ceiling, tracking patterns into the roof.

"You found me under a pile of corpses in the Enchanted Forest and promptly held a dagger to my throat."

His amusement is tangible, level with her own as he rubs his palm up and down her spine. Their eyes meet for a second, and they both chortle just thinking about the decidedly unstable beginnings of their relationship. The world quiets again and he nods lightly (there is the faintest ribbon of desperation laced into the action), urging her to ask more. Because he needs to be sure he remembers.

"When did you first realise you _liked_ me?" she asks teasingly, poking him in the ribs.

Killian purses his lips thoughtfully, visibly grasping for the moment in his head.

When he lands on it, his eyes spark to life.

"When you questioned my plan to wait until the giant fell asleep. I remember I was bandaging your hand," he snakes his hook around her wrist and brings said hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles before continuing, "and you said we needed to knock him out. I was already intrigued, had been from the moment you tied me to that blasted tree. But when you revealed your plans for the giant, you were so unflinchingly audacious… I realised I actually enjoyed your company."

"You said I'd make a hell of a pirate," she murmurs, leaning down to kiss his shoulder. She doesn't push herself back up, just settles her cheek on his warm skin and falls into his side. He turns to encircle her waist with his arms, resting on his side so they are face-to-face (or as much as they can be with their height difference - her nose nudges at his neck).

"I meant it," he replies, kissing the crown of her head.

It continues like that for some time, her questions, his answers - his heart slowing to a calm, steady beat beneath her ear.

8888

"Where was our first kiss?"

"_Technically _the Jolly Roger but for _us_… Neverland," he replies, smirking and leaning down to capture her lips in a similarly heated exchange. When they break apart, he breathes against her cheek, "I believe it went something like that."

8888

"When did you start to think that _maybe_ I reciprocated?" she inquires, slightly curious if his answer aligns what she knows in her heart to be the moment she let herself reconcile with the inevitability of what they possessed (though perhaps not the depth or strength of it).

He brushes back an errant strand of hair from her face, "At the town line. When Pan cast his curse. You said -"

"Good," she echoes at the same time he does, lips and toes curling simultaneously as he tugs her just a little closer.

It seems they are in agreement on that.

8888

She grins just thinking about the answer as she asks, "What happened when you found me in New York?"

Instantly, he chuckles, chest rumbling so they both shake a little on the bed. He tells the tale as though regaling a fond memory, even though - if she remembers correctly - it wasn't too pleasant for him.

"I tried to kiss you and you responded by kneeing me in the groin. Strangely enough, it was _exactly_ how I'd pictured for our reunion," he says sarcastically. She rolls her eyes and flicks him in the arm.

8888

"What happened to your ship?"

Without ever choosing to, her voice has become hushed and serious.

His eyes pierce hers with an intensity that burns, branding her with the emotions that rest there - just beneath the surface but plain enough for her to see.

"I traded it for a magic bean so that I could find you and bring you home."

Her eyes never leave his.

"_Why _did you trade it?"

Killian's nose nudges against hers, lips just hovering over hers before he tilts forward to whisper in her ear, "Because I love you." His mouth lands against the underside of her jaw then, kissing a trail up to the corner of her lips where she waits until he pulls back just enough for her to twine her fingers in his hair and answer.

"I love you too."

Her chest swells with emotion as he stares at her, drinking in the image of her face.

8888

Though there are still days where he struggles with himself, with the memories of what happened, with the hatred he harbours for himself; days where his heart clenches in his chest and he swears he's losing his mind or his soul or maybe both. There are other days, an infinite number of them, that counteract the darkness.

For every moment he spends in self-decreed anguish, there are a dozen more where she is there to pick up the pieces and tape them inelegantly back together. She is steadfast at his side, comforting and supportive - it's as new for him as it is for her (she's never had to _be there _for anyone other than Henry and briefly Mary Margaret). But for him she tries. She reminds him that she loves him, that she forgives him, that she needs him - and somehow, that helps. It breaks through the haze of regret, sobering him up in an instant so he doesn't spend days trying to avoid her.

They work in tandem to heal their recently accrued scars. He labours painstakingly on piecing together the fractured shards he broke, soothing her fears when they do choose to rise. Because he is not alone in his pain, and there are times when she wakes to an empty bed and forgets that he is only in the adjacent bathroom brushing his teeth or in the kitchen making coffee or at the docks working his new job. Mornings stapled by her panic and age-old fears.

There are times when only his hand twined in hers will calm the maelstrom of emotions wreaking havoc in the cavity of her chest.

They need each other in ways that they simply didn't before. It's crippling and liberating all at once, to have someone to depend on, someone to _need _with an unfettered love that swells in their chests and clogs their throats.

But they make it through - not unscathed, but alive. And together.

And, she thinks, maybe that's all that really matters.


End file.
